


Kintsugi

by GubraithianFire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Coming Out, Experienced John, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, John is bi, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Minor Character Death, Past Drug Use, Sherlock is gay, Slow Burn, Teenlock, Virgin Sherlock, balletlock, but they are a mess in the canon too, rugby!john, sherlock and john are a mess, what is refractory period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kintsugi (Japanese: golden joinery) or Kintsukuroi (Japanese: golden repair) is the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with lacquer resin dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum.</p>
<p>As a philosophy it speaks to breakage and repair becoming part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have a sick mind. I have seen [this](http://milfiepumpkin.tumblr.com/post/87486840013/come-here-john) beautiful fanart by [milfiepumpkin](http://milfiepumpkin.tumblr.com) and I ridiculously fell in love with it. I have saved it in one of my folders months ago. Just from this wonderful piece of art, my aforementioned sick mind started to develop a story. A teenlock story, because, c’mon, they look so young here. Combine my love for this fanart with the deep feelings of joy and happiness that the balletlock AU gives me and BOOM! Here you have a (what I planned to be) very long fic, full of my craziness and devotion to this fandom. 
> 
> This is my first fic (well, the first I write down: I wrote a lot in my head), and I’ll do my best to update regularly, even though it’s summer.  
> English is not my first language and I don’t have a beta, if you find any mistake, let me know :)
> 
> I ramble way too much, don’t I? Let’s go to the story, allons-y!
> 
>  
> 
> **TW for homophobic slurs and violence**

John Watson measures his life in first times.

He proudly owns a little green journal, carefully placed on his bedside table, in which he records all his first times. The cover is made of consumed leather and his name is written in a shaking five-year old handwriting on the first yellowy page. Every night little John sat at his desk, writing  with the accuracy that only children have, all the things he deemed worthy of a place in his precious green diary.

He had started to keep track of the passing time in this particular way after his beloved older sister Harriet had revealed him her own First Time Diary. John would never  forget that night, the evening on which he received the green journal.

It was a normal Wednesday night in the Watson family, and outside a light rain had just started to fall from grey clouds. John was playing hide-and-seek with his sister in her room. Suddenly, the intensity of the rain changed, and what was just a drizzle became a thunderstorm. The sound of the thunders resounded painfully in the little room, as well as the furious shouting downstairs. John didn’t like thunders, the way they made the walls shake and his ears whistle. Usually John managed to restrain from crying, because there was one thing he hated more than thunder -  to appear weak in front of other people. That night was different, though. That night, the thunder’s sounded deafening, creepily mixed with his parents’ loud voices and the sound of smashed dishes made him burst into tears.

His sister had held him in her arms and she had sung for him until he had calmed down. She then asked him if he wanted to know her secret. The five-year old nodded weakly, and Harriet smiled, handing him a turquoise notebook.

“This is my secret diary, or, if you prefer, my First Time Diary,” she said. “I call it  this because I don’t write  everything that happens to me, you know. If during the day I do or see something for the first time, I pick up my diary and I record the date and the event.”

John was looking at her with wide eyes and a frown on his little face. She sighed and asked, “Would you like me to read you an example?”

John was going to say yes, but as soon as he opened his mouth, the noise of a chair violently hitting the floor made him wince, and the word died in his throat. Harry had caught the message nevertheless, so she opened her notebook and started to read aloud.

“ _1_ _6th August 2000, I ate macaroons for the first time at Katie’s house. 22nd October 2000, I spoke to Clara Cummins for the first time._ Shall I continue, or did you understand how this works?”

John nodded enthusiastically and then said: “But why d’ya only write the first time that something happen, and not your day, like girls in movies do?”

Harry closed the diary and put it again on the shelf, then she turned to her brother and whispered: “There is always a first time. After you repeat something for some time, it just becomes normal, and you forget what it means to live it for the first time. Like, when you first tasted Coke, I remember you were… You should have seen your face, John. You had your eyes wide open and you exclaimed ‘Ooh!’, as if tasting Coke was the strangest and most exciting thing that ever happened to you. I don’t want to lose that feeling, the shiver you feel when you see something you have never seen before. The first thoughts you have on someone. Because every first time brings with itself emotions and experiences, and when you read them again, you remember a little what you felt”.

While talking, Harry had gesticulated a lot, her hands trailing invisible patterns in the air. The silence in the room (never in the house, in which now a loud “BITCH!” could be heard) was broken by John’s enthusiastic voice: “That’s cool! I want to write one too!”

“I knew you’d like it,” Harry said with a wink and a smile that did not reach her eyes, “For this reason, I have  a nice journal for you, but you must be careful: it was granny’s”. She then handed him the green leather journal , and John immediately fell in love with it. He asked Harriet to write his name on a piece of paper so that he could copy it in his diary without mistakes, and then spent the whole evening turning the yellow pages and smelling their old scent. He eventually fell asleep on Harry’s bedroom floor, holding his diary to his chest, and ignoring the sound of a woman crying downstairs.

 

oO°Oo

 

  _15 th January 2002: I ~~plaid~~ played for the first time with a Game Boy (it was Tim Ford’s though). IT WAS AWESOME! I want to ask Mum one for my sixth birthday, because Tim is ~~stoo~~ stupid and I want a Game Boy too. With the Pokémon game._

_24 th January 2002: I met Harry’s best friend Clara. She is really nice, because she gave me a sweet._

_5 th  February 2002: I LOST MY FIRST TOOTH!!! Before I liked playing with it with my tongue, but now I feel a hole and it seems huuuge. It’s kinda cool, actually._

_6 th February 2002: THE TOOTH FAIRY BROUGHT ME 2£ AND A TOOTHBRUSH!!!_

 

_12 th  March 2003: Harry and I fought for the first time. Like, for real. I even pulled her hair and punched her leg. Now I can’t even remember why we were fighting. Now she is here in my room with me, she has made me hot cocoa with pieces of marshmallows in it. So I ~~forgived~~ forgave her. I feel awful though, I don’t like fighting with her. She’s the only one who really loves me in this house._

_26 th  May 2004: Dad came home drunk from the pub yesterday. It was the first time I saw him in that state. He scared me. I hope he never drinks anymore._

_21 st  July 2004: Dad keeps drinking. He’s drunk every night now. Yesterday he hit me. It was the first time he did something like that. I hate him. I don’t want to talk to him anymore. I hate Mum too, because she watched him do it. I decided I wanted to live on a pirate ship, because pirates fear no one. So I was preparing a bag with my clothes and a swimsuit earlier but Harry stopped me. We are lucky to have each other. She suggested I  write down what I feel, and I must say she was right: writing makes me feel better._

_1 st October 2005: I HAVE MY FIRST GIRLFRIEND! Her name’s Jessica, and we held hands during the break and she kissed me on the cheek before she went home. She makes me blush and feel a knot in my stomach whenever I look at her and she has beautiful eyes (and hair). I think I love her._

_9 th November 2005: Jessica and I broke up. She was too clingy, and didn’t let me play with Suzanne, who’s _ _more beautiful and funnier than her, anyway._

_8 th April 2006: Happy tenth birthday to me. It’s the first time we didn’t  celebrate it, mainly because Harry is on a trip with her school (why does she have to be seven years older than me?) and Mum is in hospital, because Dad pushed her down the stairs. Dad is at work, and I am staying at Mike’s house for the afternoon, Mum and Dad are picking me up later. Mike's mum baked a cake just for me, and they both sang me ‘Happy Birthday’. It should have made me feel happy, but somehow it doesn’t._

_19 th September 2006: Dad let me try to drive his car in an empty car park. It was the first time I tried to drive a car.  It was fun, but I know he did it just because yesterday he hit Mum. Again._

_13 th November 2006: Harry, Clara and I skipped school today. We went to eat an ice-cream and then we went to play with a ball in the park. Well, I played, while they were sitting on the grass kissing. Ugh. I had a lot of fun though.  I admit that I was nervous, it was the first time I skipped school! What if a teacher had seen us? Harry said I was a “geek” and hit me in the face with the ball. I hate her sometimes._

_30 th December 2007: Dad was so drunk that Mum, Harry and I had to go to our neighbour, Mrs. Turner, so that we could have some sleep, because Dad was really scary, and threatened to hit all of us. It was the first time I slept somewhere that wasn’t home._

_11 th May 2008: Today I found Harry drinking some alcoholic shit in her bedroom, and for the first time I had to behave like the older sibling. So I took the bottle from her hands and smashed it on the asphalt outside the house. She cried the whole afternoon apologizing, but I don’t care. I feel like I aged twenty years. _

_3 rd  June 2009: TODAY I GAVE MY FIRST KISS. So, I was talking with James Sholto under the school big tree. He is my best friend (even though he is not friend with many other kids), and he always makes my stomach feel strange, like I have butterflies in it, and I always feel like this when he laughs and when he looks at me with his blue eyes. What am I saying, whenever I am with him my stomachs tries to escape from my body. He is beautiful. We were talking about the football match that we won yesterday, when I made a joke and he laughed. Suddenly, seeing him laughing made me feel weak and I had this pain in my chest and I just leaned toward him and I kissed him on the mouth. He didn’t complain or run away, he just held my hand and kissed my cheek. After this, I asked him if he wanted to be my boyfriend and he said yes. HE SAID YES! I’M SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW! As soon as I came back home I told Harry everything, and she congratulated me and asked if I wanted to celebrate by hanging out with her and Clara, because tonight it’s their third anniversary. So two first times today: first kiss and first visit to the pub (should I say first boyfriend too? Jessica was a girlfriend, after all)_

 

oO°Oo

 

John picks up his favourite t-shirt (the one with David Tennant’s face on the front, with the 3D glasses on, so classy), and a pair of old trousers for the evening. Then he combs his hair more meticulously than usual, wearing even a splash of his father’s cologne. When his sister sees him, she theatrically pinches her nose, as though there is a bad smell. John playfully hits her with his shoulder and off they go, picking up Clara first and then heading to the pub. John tastes his first beer, gaining giggles from both Clara and Harry when he miserably tries to act cool, when in reality he’s hating the taste of the golden liquid. After glaring angrily at the two of them for a couple of seconds, the boy bursts out laughing, and the two girls follow him. They talk about nothing and everything, play darts and eat some chips.

It’s the happiest day John has ever had.

Eventually they exit the pub, and they all three stand on the pavement in front of the door for a couple of minutes, just chatting while Harry smokes her “last cigarette of the day”.

“Congratulations again, John. It was very brave of you. To initiate the kiss, I mean,” says Clara, with a bright smile on her round face, her green eyes watching John tenderly.

“It must be a Watson thing then, since I had to make the first move to kiss you, my dear Clara.”

“Oh shut it Harry, back then I didn’t even know I liked girls! You Watsons are too precocious with this stuff.”

John finds himself giggling, watching the two girls playfully bickering on the pavement, elbowing each other and smiling fondly whenever they catch the other’s eye.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” says John, “tonight’s not only about me, it’s about the two of you, too. Happy third anniversary! You can now kiss the... uhm... celebrated.”

Harry and Clara laugh, and then kiss with a loud pop.

“Hoy! Yeah, you too. It’s a shame, kissing like that in front of a child! Do you want to make him become a fucking faggot?”

John turns around to see who spoke: a thirty-something year old man, clearly drunk, with a leather jacket and a bald head, threateningly waving a can of beer toward the three of them.

“Have you got any problem, sir?” asks Harry, spitting out the last word, and gaining a warning look from Clara.

“Yes, yes I have,” says the man approaching the little group, “because you’re fucking filthy lesbians and you are kissing in front of an innocent kid. He will start liking a cock up his arse if you continue with your fucking crap. It’s just disgusting for all to see the two of you fucking each other’s mouths with your lesbian tongues.”

“First of all, you are a far worse example to 'this innocent kid' than us, since we are just displaying our love, while you are using a vulgar and poor vocabulary just to attack us. Secondly, I don’t know if you have seen, but our lips barely touched, It certainly didn’t start to snog my girlfriend in front of my thirteen-year old brother. And lastly,  shove  you ignorant crap up your ass and piss off,” while talking, Harry got closer to the man, leaving behind herself John Clara, as if using her body and her words to protect them. John suddenly feels a wave of pride for his sister, accompanied by a jab of fear running all the way down his spine. She looks at the man from head to toe with a distasteful glare, while he stares at her with blurry, red eyes.

“You know, you are just a narrow mind person, and it isn’t worth the trouble to talk to you.”

“You fucking bitch!” screamed the man, before pulling a pocket knife out of his leather jacket and thrusting it into Harriet’s stomach. Once. Twice. And again. And a fourth time.

“ **NO!** ”  John screams, throwing himself against the man, who is too drunk to avoid the little boy, stabbing his left shoulder before losing the grip on the knife. Some people are now gathering around the little group, and a couple of men take care of the drunk man, so that John can run toward his sister. Clara is holding her in her arms, whispering that everything will be all right, she has already called an ambulance, she just needs to stay calm and don’t fall asleep. John holds one of his sister’s hand in his, and watches Harriet’s eyes closing slowly and inexorably, while the ambulance siren painfully wails into John already insensitive ears.

 

oO°Oo

 

It’s her spleen. A tiny organ, in the otherwise perfect machine that is the human body. Her spleen is completely mangled, and although a human could live without it, she has lost too much blood already. Harriet Eugene Watson is declared officially deceased at 12:02 am, 4th June 2009.

The drunk man (such Bob Maurice, thirty-three years old, just out of prison for harassment and aggression) is arrested and taken away by the police.

Too high on adrenaline and paralyzed with cold dread for his sister's wounds, John wasn’t even aware he’d  been stabbed. A young and gentle doctor sews him up and tells him that he has been lucky, it was barely a scratch. She doesn’t know that John hadn’t found himself in a row. He hadn’t been lucky. The opposite, really.

John doesn’t remember much of the night in hospital, just tiny fragments: the face of the doctor who sewed his shoulder and her kind, brown eyes; the green scrub of the two surgeons who told them Harry hadn’t made it; Clara’s blank look and pale face; his mother crying her heart out in the corridor; his father blaming the doctors’ negligence, screaming and waving his angry fists in the air; the silent and hollow car ride to get back home; him throwing away his t-shirt, Tennant's face covered in blood; the lack of sleep due to a feeling of desperate emptiness that just doesn’t go away.

 

A few days later, John attends the funeral, and he hasn’t already cried. He watches family and friends grieving his sister theatrically and he hates every single one of them. They don’t deserve to be there.

Where were they when John and Harry had to fight against their father drinking habit? Where were they when their father broke Harry’s arm, or when he gave her a black eye? Where were they when their mother decided that she had had enough, but couldn’t manage to run away, because she had nowhere to go? Did they help? They stay there, telling each other memories of little Harry’s adventure, but they do not know the first thing about her. Oh yes, they are here now, supporting the family, but isn’t it useless? Easy for them, just a pat on a shoulder, a word of pity and then everyone go home, back to their ordinary, perfect lives. They are all such hypocrites.

And then there’s Clara. All alone, in the farthest  corner of the room, she’s staring blankly at the people gathered there, without really seeing them. John approaches her and takes her hand. They look at each other knowingly, then they spend the whole afternoon in silence, the two of them against the rest of the shallow grieving crowd.

The next morning, after another sleepless night, John takes his green First Time Diary and buries it angrily in a drawer.

For the first time since his sister died, he allows himself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just part I of the first chapter, since chapter 3 they will be teenagers, don’t worry ;)  
> I just wanted to give them some background story. Sorry if you already liked Harry.  
> The second part of this chapter is ready, but I’m leaving for a scary place for a week and a half. I say scary because there is no Wi-Fi, like c’mooon, we are in 2014!  
> Anyway, let me know if you enjoyed this :)  
> Check [my blog](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com) out and ask me anything that crosses your mind/send me you opinions!


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes measures his life in deductions.

He proudly owns  a little green journal, carefully placed on his bedside table, in which he records all his deductions about the people he meets. They are fast, incisive, and almost always right. Unlike the majority of people, they never fail him, and the sharpness of his eyes grow every day. Every night little Sherlock would sit at his desk, writing down with the accuracy that only children have, all the observations he made during the day, carefully writing beside them the date and hour.

He started to keep track of the passing time in this particular way after his beloved older brother Mycroft had suggested he  write a “Deduction Manual.”  Sherlock would never forgot  that day, the morning on which he received the green journal.

It was a normal Friday morning in the Holmes manor, and outside the sun was rising from behind a little hill.

The soon-to-be six-year-old Sherlock was avidly sipping his morning chocolate milkshake, making a mess of his face and pyjamas (the one with bees all over it), while Mycroft watched him with a half amused, half disgusted look.

“Why didn’t you sleep in your room last night?” asked Sherlock, continuing to happily lap the bottom of his cup. Mycroft didn’t look surprised in the slightest by the question, it was quite obvious really, one just needed to look at him.

“Can’t you deduce it?” he replied, with his typical tone of boredom.

Sherlock looked challenged by this question (despite the condescension with which it was delivered), and started to search for clues in Mycroft’s hair, shirt and shoes.

“I think, judging by the traces of mud you tried to remove from your back and your hair, that you fell asleep in the garden, while you were stargazing – I can see your telescope from here, and –oh! You ate all of Mummy’s cake! Am I right?”

“Yes. Yes, you are,” said Mycroft, and the little boy beamed, “although they were hardly difficult deductions, Sherlock. Now, finish your toast and go dress up like a civil person. Off you pop!”

Sherlock’s smile dropped from his face, disappointment written all over it. Sure, it wasn’t news – his older brother never seemed impress by his deductions, being him the one who taught Sherlock the art of noticing details and connecting dots, but the little boy would have appreciated his brother’s approval.

Sherlock ran upstairs leaving his half-eaten toast behind just to spite Mycroft, and then angrily wore a white shirt and a pair of trousers. Unlike the other children of his age, Sherlock Holmes could dress up and tie his shoes without anyone’s help. He could also read and write flawlessly,  Mycroft being an exigent teacher.

The little boy went back downstairs stomping his foot on every single step, so that everybody knew he was coming and that he was angry. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw one of the maids smiling at him. She was nice, one of the few people Sherlock actually liked.  He approached her, “Your son is developing an alcohol addiction, probably due to that new group of friends he has- Are you all right?” he asked, because the maid (Susan) had suddenly become pale.

“Sherlock, for goodness’ sake, you haven’t eaten your toast nor rinsed your mug. You are therefore immediately requested in the kitchen. Now.”

Mycroft had appeared from behind Sherlock without him noticing, and the little boy did as asked, since his brother’s tone was serious enough to scare him.

“My cup has already been rinsed,” Sherlock stated as soon as he entered the kitchen.

“Apparently. Now, Sherlock, we need to talk. Here, have a seat. Listen, you don’t have to like people – I despise a vast majority of them for instance, but you must understand that there are six billion people in this world, and you must pretend to like a lot of them, so that you can get what you really want. Do you understand me, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock nodded firmly.

“Good. Right, so, I understand you might not appreciate Susan, but she’s the only maid who...”

“What? Myc, I really like Susan! ” Sherlock exclaimed almost affronted. Mycroft stared at him, an expression of shock on his still very young face.

“Then why would you upset her telling her about her son?”

“Because I care about her and I want her to look after him!”

Mycroft scrutinized him for a few seconds, then slowly said, “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

The five-year-old didn’t know what to reply to that, so he just  sat there, watching his brother, waiting for his next words.

“Sherlock, this is not the first time you delivered a deduction to someone. You do that to hurt or, as I just learnt, because you  _care_ ,” the last word sounded foreign and bitter on the boy’s tongue, “And you are observant enough to have noticed that your deductions are never welcome. The point that I am trying to make is that people don’t like to be outsmarted and they don’t like when someone is telling them something about their life that should be private. They just don’t. So, I bought you a gift.”

At these words Sherlock started to lean on the counter toward his brother, who was fishing a little green diary from a pocket of his jacket. On the cover the words “ _Deduction Manual_ ” were engraved in golden letters. Sherlock eagerly took it and opened it. The first page contained a dedication from Mycroft (“ _Write here your deductions, little brother. And remember, you can always count on my help. –MH”_ ), while the other thirteen pages were covered in Mycroft’s elegant handwriting, who accurately noted some tricks and useful tips about the “Science of Deduction”.

“Whenever you notice something indiscrete about someone, Sherlock, you write it here, and then every morning, before we go to school, we will read it together. All right?”

Sherlock nodded seriously and smiled at his brother, who placed a caring hand on his hair and smiled back. When they heard their mother calling them for school, they hurried to the door and jumped in the car, Sherlock clutching the Manual to his heart.

 

oO°Oo

 

_15 thJanuary 2002, 08:38 am. Deduction: Amelia’s parents are divorcing. Clues: 1) She came to school just with her mum, while usually it’s both of her parents who take her to school. 2) Her mother had cried this morning, and she hadn’t time to make up properly, so she was probably fighting with her husband. 3) She has already got rid of her wedding ring, this indicates anger. _

_24 th_ __ _January 2002, 11.54 pm. Deduction: Wilfred’s wife is pregnant. Clues: 1) He had some pink varnish under his nails, but we are not painting. Ergo, he must have been painting his own home. Pink is a strange colour for the house of two grown-ups, so he was probably painting a room for a child. 2) I heard him ask Mummy if he could take a holiday for the end of March, I think when the baby is due._

  
_Sherlock, it’s really late. You should go to sleep earlier. And you can congratulate  our butler, it’s only polite.–MH  _

_Shut it, Myc._

_5 th_ __ _February 2002, 04:21 pm._ _~~Deduction : Redbeard is sick. Clue: he has been sleeping for 213 minutes.~~ _ _Mycroft just told me it’s normal for a five-month-old puppy and that I should stop worrying about Redbeard because he is a perfectly healthy dog._

_6 th_ __ _February 2003, 10.18 am. Deduction: Ms. Foley is in financial troubles. Clues: 1) She has been coming to school on the tube for four weeks now. 2) She recently moved (she told us so a  week and a half ago). 3) Her boyfriend broke up with her three months ago. 4) She hasn’t been buying new clothes for two months._

_12 th_ __ _March 2003, 03:25 pm. Deduction: Mycroft is a fat idiot. Clues: 1) He’s fat. 2) He’s an idiot._

_ Brother dear, you are supposed use this diary as a Manual, not as a petty and childish journal. –MH _

_My Manual, my rules. I hate you._

_26 th_ _May 2004, 6.07 pm. Deduction: Sebastian Wilkes is not my friend. Clues: 1) He didn’t share his snack with me, other children do it with their friends. 2) He mocked me in front of the entire class and called me a freak. 3) He only ever calls me “mate” and is nice to me when there’s a test. Anyway, who cares, I don’t need friends._

_21 st_ _July 2004, 02:46 am. Deduction: Mummy would want to be a mathematician again. Clues: 1) Whenever she tells her friends of how happy she is since she gave Maths up for Myc and me she lightly shakes her head (it means she’s lying). 2) Every time someone walks in and she’s reading one of her books, she shuts it and puts it away in a hurry, as though she has something to hide. 3) At dinner last night, when Father asked her if she wanted to go back teaching she got really angry and left the dining room. 4) I can hear her crying in her room._

_1 st_ _October 2005, 02.10 pm. Deduction: Chris’s brother is doing drugs. Clues: 1) Yesterday, when he came to pick Chris up from school, he had red eyes and was scratching his arm. So I got closer and pretended to fall on him to look better under his sleeve, and I noticed red dots on his arm. This, associated with slow movements makes me think of heroin._

_ For heaven’s sake, Sherlock. Aren’t you a bit too young to investigate drugs? Anyway, good job not telling Chris, it’s very mature of you. -MH _

_If I am mature enough to lie, then I’m mature enough to notice when someone is doing drugs. I’m nine and three-quarters, by the way, I am by no means “young”._

_9 th_ __ _November 2005, 09.45 am. Deduction: Melissa’s father is beating her and her mother. Clues: 1) Melissa came  to school with a broken arm. She told us that she fell from the stairs, but she was showing signs that she was lying (avoid eye contact, shake head, scratch her ear, etc.). Moreover, it seemed that she didn’t want to talk about it, while other kids, when they break something, are eager to tell their story. 2) She jumps whenever she hears loud noises. 3) Her mum always behaves like she’s scared._

_ I’m sorry Sherlock, I’m reading this just know, I came home late. Tomorrow morning, leave me a note with Melissa’s personal details (surname, phone number, etc.), and I will sort this out. I’m very proud of you, if you told her, she would have been scared and it wouldn’t have make the situation any better. Very good job. –MH _

_8 th_ __ _April 2006, 05:27 pm. I’m in the hospital waiting room (I just have first grade burns, what a useless waste of time) and I am boooooreeeeed. Mummy says I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t made my experiment blow up but well, it was worth it. The flames were of a beautiful blue. I will try to recreate that shade of colour, I just decided it’s my favourite one. Mummy is reading from beside me and she just said she doesn’t approve._ _~~Oh, well. She suggested me to deduce other people here. But they’re all boooriii-~~ _ _That woman is interesting. Submissive mother (cashier), with alcoholic husband (mechanic) and two children. The daughter is Myc’s age and she’s on a trip with her school (and the parents don’t know she’s lesbian). The son is my age and today it’s his birthday (she’s holding a blue ‘Happy Tenth Birthday’ card). The husband is at work. But this means they are both going to miss it! I’m sorry for the boy. She’s here because her husband pushed her down the stairs this morning, though she’s gonna say that she “fell”._

 _They all live in a little flat, they don’t have pets and there’s a leak under their kitchen sink. They really should call a plumber,_ _~~even if they can’t afford one~~ _ _. Mummy says this is rude. Well, there were many things to deduce, so it was fun! It’s my turn now._

_19 thSeptember 2006, 04:34 am. MYCROFT IS A LIAR AND I WILL NEVER FORGIVE WHAT HE DID. I will never trust him again. I still can’t believe I fell for the story of Redbeard being in a better place. He’s been put down and NO ONE TOLD ME. No one in my family. And Mycroft LIED about this._

_He wasn’t just my dog, he was my_ friend _. I had the right to know._

_13 thNovember 2006, 09:19 pm. Deduction: Mummy and Father want to take me to a psychiatrist. Clues: 1) They are worried because I haven’t been communicating with anyone (except for the Manual, that now is very well hidden) since I discovered about Redbeard. 2) Yesterday they found me experimenting on the corpse of a bird (it was already dead, I didn’t kill it, as they are inclined to believe). 3) Father has taken a week off “to spend some time with me”. 4) They really think I could be a sociopath, I found a link in the History of their computer. Well, I read the description, and I like it. No more caring, no more feeling betrayed. I like it. I want to be a sociopath. High-functioning sociopath._

_30 thDecember 2007, 01:13 pm. Deduction: Mr Brown’s daughter and her boyfriend are planning to run away from their homes. Clues: 1) He’s being very restrictive with her, and doesn’t approve of the boyfriend, just because he’s five years her senior and he’s a punk (Mr. Brown himself was a punker in his teenage years, what a hypocrite). 2) She’s been taking home her things from her locker for days, and she hasn’t brought them back. 3) Yesterday her boyfriend came to pick her up, I saw a case in the back of his car._

_11 th_ __ _May 2008, 12.52 pm. Deduction: Victor Trevor is my friend. Clues: 1) Since his dog bit me, he brings me a cupcake every day and we chat in front of my locker until the bell rings. 2) He never mocked me. 3) He got punched by the captain of the baseball team standing up for me. 4) He invited me to spend my summer holidays with him and his father._

_3 rd_ _June 2009: Father has a lover._ _ ~~I don’t know what to do.~~_ _This Manual was supposed to help me keeping uncomfortable deductions to myself, and this_ is _uncomfortable. Mycroft knows, of course. The prat doesn’t say anything, though. This would break Mummy if she knew. But this is too big a discovery to keep it to myself._ _ ~~What do I do? Should I keep a straight face and pretend I don’t know anything?~~_ _Mummy has the right to know. I’m gonna tell her._

 

oO°Oo

 

“Mummy.”

Sherlock is nervously standing in front of the fireplace. He’s looking at his shoes and playing with the button cuffs of his white shirt. It’s Mycroft’s birthday, so they are all dressed elegantly. In fact, when he’s at home, Sherlock usually wears t-shirts, pyjama bottoms and dressing gowns.

His mother is straightening the pillows of the sofa, showing him her back. When she hears him calling her, she turns to look at him.

“Tell me, honey,” she says, smiling sweetly at him.

“I-I have to tell you something.” Sherlock is still looking at the ground, trying to ease the pain in his gut.

“Is this about ballet? Are the other kids mocking you again? If I ever discover who gave my boy a black eye last time, I shall turn absolutely monstrous.”

“No Mummy, it’s not about ballet.”

“Have you blown something up?”

“No.”

“Have you deduced something indiscrete about someone and you don’t know what to do?”

“Yes.”

Violet Holmes sighs heavily, then sits on the sofa, patting with her right hand on the cushion beside her. Sherlock slowly approaches her and sits down, always avoiding his mother’s eyes.

She brings up her hand and caresses his hair, looking fondly at him with her blue eyes and warm smile.

“Is it really so bad?” she asks, without stopping to play with her son’s unruly hair. He nods slowly.

“Didn’t writing it down in your Manual helped you?”

He shakes his head. Damn, please don’t cry, he thinks when he feels tears stinging in his eyes. He silently prays that his mother doesn’t notice. But of course she does.

“Sherly! My God, what’s wrong?” she sounds very worried, and while speaking she holds Sherlock tight to her chest, lightly rocking him back and forth.

“Mummy, it’s all right, it’s fine. I’ve just got something to tell you. I deduced…” his voice trails off, and he takes a deep breath, “I deduced something about… something about Father.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but the first guests are starting to gather in the backyard. Mummy, Auntie Ginevra asked for you. She sounded pretty impatient – I think it’s about that cottage in Sussex she wants to leave you in her will. If I were you, I’d talk to her as soon as possible. And Sherlock, our cousin Irene is already looking for you”.

Mycroft has appeared apparently from nowhere, and right now he’s standing in front of the duo, unabashedly glaring at Sherlock, who, in the meantime, had disentangled himself from his mother tight embrace.

“What’s going on, you two?” asks Violet. She’s not stupid, not at all, and immediately feels the tension between her sons. The two brothers continue to look at each other, playing a silent mind game. Sherlock is challenging Mycroft, who is daring him to speak.

“What are you doing all here? Everybody is outside waiting for you! Is there something wrong?”

Great, Sherlock really needed this. How could she tell his mum in front of his father? He has to wait for a better time. So he sighs and looks away from Mycroft, giving him the victory for this time.

Mummy Holmes is paler than before, and is looking between her sons and her husband with a frightened look. She is starting to suspect. Shit, thinks Sherlock, closing his eyes.

They all four stand there, in an awkward silence. Siger Holmes is used to these silent conversations between the geniuses of the family, so he just remains still, waiting for a proper time to repeat his question. Just to pass the time, he even starts to hum the tune of “Happy Birthday”, while the rest of his family continues to ponder their next move. They don’t have to do it for long.

“Siger, here you are! You promised me to show me the house? Oh, you’re here with you family! Is that cutie Sherly? He’s so beautiful! You look like a doll, dear. And are you Violet? Nice to meet you, I’m Jessica Ryder, your husband’s colleague. And you must be Myc then. Happy birthday!”

The woman who has just entered the room is a twenty-something blond idiot, with too much make-up and a too loud voice. She has spoken really fast, barely stopping to breathe, and so she hasn’t noticed that everyone in the room has frozen.

Sherlock’s head snaps up to look at his brother, whose face is the mirror of his horrified expression, while Violet looks at them with pure terror on her sweet features.

This time Mycroft doesn’t stop his brother when he starts speaking.

“You-you brought her here! How could you? We all know, Father, we all do!” Sherlock has started to speak in a whisper, but his last few words were screamed, hot tears burning a path on his pale cheeks. Mummy Holmes is silently crying too now, looking sadly at his husband, who’s still frozen in his place.

“Could you… Siger, Jessica, could you give me a moment with my children?”

Violet’s voice is weak but firm, so the two slowly start turning towards  the door, the Siger glancing painfully at his wife over his shoulder, but not arguing nonetheless. When Jessica is out the door, Violet speaks again: “Ah and Siger, don’t bother coming home tonight”. At these words, the man completely turns around towards his family and nods seriously looking straight into his wife’s eyes, then leaves. He’s never been a man of many words.

After the door is closed, Violet motions to the cushion on her left, and Mycroft sits down.

“I want you to know this, even though you’ll think it’s stupid, because to me it’s important. Sherly, Myc, this is  _not_  your fault, not in the slightest, you couldn’t have prevented it and it’s not of your concern. It’s a thing between your father and me, and I don’t want you to worry about it. We will sort this out. We are a family. Now, Sherly, go and play with Irene, I’m sure your cousin is dying to see your last experiment. Myc, it’s your party, go out and entertain your guests. Now I’ll go and talk to Auntie Ginevra about that cottage in Sussex and if you still want we’ll talk about what happened tonight. In the meantime, we pretend nothing happened. All right?”

“All right, Mummy”

“Yes, Mummy”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I read [this](http://www.empireonline.com/features/sherlock-series-3-secrets/p18) interview by Mofftiss in which Gatiss say "...so the truth is that when he was little – and obviously Mycroft tormented him about it – is that his dog died, and he totally fell for the idea that Redbeard had gone to live in a happy valley somewhere". So I wanted to use this to explain one of the reasons why Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship is so tense now.  
> 2\. I remember that I read somewhere (and obviously now I can't remember where) that in a commentary or something, Ben (or was it Moffat?) said that at the end of ASIP it is implied that Sherlock's father cheated on his mother and Sherlock deduced it and revealed it to his family. I also remember that they said they hadn't explicitated it because they wanted to leave the doubt to the viewer.  
> [MYCROFT: ...and you know how it always upset Mummy. SHERLOCK: I upset her? Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.], from Ariane DeVere's [transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/42853.html).  
> Anyway, sorry sorry sorry if I’m late! Just, what a hectic week! I know I said I had already written this second chapter, but when I was checking it looking for mistakes, I realised I wasn’t happy with it, so I just wrote it again!  
> This is the end of the boys' childhoods, so next chapter there's the meeting!  
> Right now I'm very busy (I am studying for my IELTS exam), so I don't know when I'll be able to update.  
> Remember, you are more than welcome to write [me](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/), and thank you for leaving kudos/bookmarking or simply reading! I love you all :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people! This one arrived pretty fast, didn't it? I know I said I had to study for my IELTS exam, but hey, isn't writing in English enough? *nervous laugh*  
> Aaanyway, I'll leave you to the story, it's better.  
> Always remember you can ask me anything you want in the comments or on my [blog](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/) c:

It’s the screaming that captures his attention. That, and the distinct sound of clenched fists meeting flesh.

It’s a warm and clear summer day, and John is going back home from the rugby pitch, where he has been practicing on his own. In September he’s going to be captain of the team in his school, and he’s working hard to be worthy of that important position. Moreover, he just can’t stand staying in his empty house.

As soon as he identifies the source of the noise, he starts running towards it, just to find six of his teammates beating  a slender boy to a pulp.

“Oi, what the hell d’ya think you’re doing?” snaps John, glaring angrily at the players.

“Oh, hi Watson,” says  Bill Murray awkwardly, his best friend in the team. “We were just… We know you don’t approve bullying and shit, but… this is not what you think.”

While he was speaking, the other boys had turned to look at John too, and now they are forming a sort of line, like soldiers  in front of their captain. They already recognize his authority. Perfect. John clears his throat and squares his shoulder, before positioning himself in front of the group, covering the thin boy, still curled on the ground. He’ll check on him later.

“And what am I thinking right now, Murray?” He tries to make his voice as firm as he can, and it works. Bill looks  at him with terrified eyes and the others fidget  nervously, trying their best to avoid eye contact with their captain. John fights back a grin; it would destroy his efforts.

“That…that we’re beating him because he’s dressed like… like a ballerina. But we couldn’t care less of this poofter, if he hadn’t… Well, we were here, minding our own businesses, when this little git approaches us and asks for some weed. Like, bro, we have no weed, we have to be healthy to play. But he wouldn’t let it go, and told us that it was obvious we smoke weed and that’s the reason why we lost so many games last season and when we sent him away he started telling us things about our lives… So we understood that this must be some police shit, and so we tried to teach him a lesson, that’s all.”

John ponders what to say, before opening his mouth and speaking in his best ‘captain voice’.

“Well, you all are  idiots. If he’s part of ‘some police shit’, he must have been sent by a policeman, since he’s clearly underage. Now that he’ll go back covered in bruises and blood, do you think you’ll be able to get away with it? I strongly suggest you to run, I need you all on the field in September, and not in some shitty prison cell. Clear?”

After some “Yes, Cap”, “Sure, John” and “See ya”, all the six boys vanish  down  another road. John sighs and shakes his head lightly. They are good on camp, sure, but this doesn’t mean they aren’t colossal imbeciles . Only then John remembers the little boy, who is glaring at him from the ground.

“I am not from the police,” he says, out of the blue.

“I know,”  John answers, “ ’s just trying to send ‘em away.”

He shrugs.

“Why?”

At this question, John looks at the boy in disbelief.

“Weren’t you there while they were trying to break all you bones?”

This time is the other boy’s turn to shrug.

“I’m used to it.”

John takes a few second to really  _look_  at the boy. He’s beautiful, even with a broken lip and blood on his high cheekbones. He has black, unruly hair, an errant curl falling on his forehead, just above the most incredible eyes John has ever seen. His mouth is impossibly heart-shaped, and he’s so very minute. John thinks a gust of wind could sweep him off his feet. How can he be used to it? Then John notices the black tights he’s wearing and a pair of abandoned ballet shoes beside him and understands that life must not be easy in school for this skinny boy.

He approaches him and offers his hand, “C’mon”, he says, sweetly, “my home’s not far, I can stich you up.”

The boy hesitates for long a long moment before taking the outstretched hand, but as soon as he’s on his feet, he steps back from John.

“Thank you, but no thank you. I don’t need your pity. It’s been a pleasure, bye bye.”

The boy is taller than John had imagined, and it takes him a moment after the surprise to understand what he said.

“Pity? Wh-what? No, I just wanna help, man,” says John, frantically waving his hands in front of him.

“I don’t need the help of a boy who’s desperately trying to come to terms with his brother’s murder and his father’s violent behaviour. You couldn’t do anything to save your brother – killed in front of your eyes, wasn’t he, and now you’re trying to make things right with me. Well, I’ve already said it, thank you, but no thank you. Now punch me in the face, it’s what most people have already done by this point, and let’s go our separate ways.”

The boy has spoken really fast, barely stopping to breathe, and he’s now standing right in front of John, clenched fists, his face half-turned, offering him his cheek.

John’s head is drowning in a sea of questions, and he’s feeling a wide range of emotions – anger (how dare this little arrogant use his trauma against him?), disbelief (has he heard it right or is he passed out on the rugby pitch?), curiosity (how the hell did he knew all this?),  and (shockingly)  _fondness_. Yes, fondness because the boy just stands there, waiting for a punch and pretending to be cool, while in reality his body is tensed and he’s slightly shaking. He seems so young and fragile, with his eyes tight close and blood streaming down his face. So, instead of punching him, John asks him the first question that comes to his mind.

“Why don’t you run away?”

The boy looks at John in surprise, as if  _he_ ’s gone out of his mind.

“What?”

“I asked, if you know I’m gonna hit you, why don’t you just turn and go away?”

“Well, if you hit me now and I don’t defend myself, you’ll be happy with just one punch and I’ll be able to go home on my feet. But if I run away, you’ll chase me and probably knock me down. I’m already weak, I can’t afford another fight. It’s only sensible.”

And the worst thing is that John thinks it’s  _actually_  sensible. And so much worse than that is that he  _likes_ the boy. With a large smile, he outstretches his hand.

“John Watson,” he says.

The other boy widens his eyes even more, but takes the offered hand nonetheless.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

He obviously has a posh name, the git. John bends down and takes Sherlock’s ballet shoes in his hands, then starts walking towards home, leading the way, and after a few seconds of uncertainty, the other boy follows him.

“So, tell me,  _Sherlock Holmes_ , how did you know all that stuff about me?” asks John, still smiling.  _Why the hell can’t he stop grinning?_

“I didn’t  _know,_ ” he sounds particularly offended, John notices, “I deduced it.”

“Alright, but… how?”

“Your rugby bag. I can still read the name ‘Harry Watson’ on it, even though it’s fading. I heard your friends calling you ‘Watson’ and ‘John’, so you’re related to the previous owner of the bag. But who? I know that training bag, this September I’m going to attend your same school, and I have researched a bit. That’s the old model, designed in 2005 and dismissed in 2010. So, clearly it couldn’t have been your father’s. An older cousin? Hardly, more likely an older sibling. Although you are not particularly wealthy, you try to dress as best as you can, wearing the clothes that are popular now; ergo, you care about other people’s opinion, about what they think of you. So why would you use your brother’s old bag, and not the one the team gives you along with the uniform? Something must have happened to him, most likely he’s dead. How did I know he was murdered? Shot in the dark, lucky one though. You were absent-mindedly clutching your left shoulder while you were running to ‘rescue’ me,” at the word ‘rescue’, Sherlock rolls his eyes, “You’re the captain of the rugby team, so you must be fit, and your shoulder is not bothering you right now, so it must have been a psychosomatic pain. Injured during a traumatic event, then. What did you hear or saw while running towards me that reminded you that episode? You heard people screaming insults and the sound of feet and fists hitting flesh. Conclusion, probably you brother was killed in a fight, you were there and got your shoulder injured, am I wrong?”

“What about my father?” John breathes, completely mesmerized, both by the boy’s words and his deep voice. God, that baritone should be illegal.

“That one was easy. Moronic, really. You have a big bruise on your right cheek, procured by a slap –given with the back of the hand, judging by its shape. You tried to cover it –not from rugby or a fight then, or else you wouldn’t be ashamed to show it. The bruise was initially very bad, so it must have been made by someone strong and with big hands –which usually indicates great height. So strong, tall and whose wounds you don’t want anyone to see: most likely your father. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” whispers John, too caught up in Sherlock’s monologue to do anything but repeat the boy’s last words.

“You are…” he trails off: he can’t find the right word to describe what he has just witnessed. And  _what the hell_ has he just witnessed, for heaven’s sake.

“Yes, yes I know. A freak, a weirdo, a psychopath. Do try to use your imagination, insult me creatively.”

“Are you always so defensive? Jeez, I was gonna say it was amazing, you’re brilliant.”

Sherlock looks straight ahead and blinks a couple of times, as though he can’t believe what he has just heard. John can’t help but smile at him.

“W-well, that is a first.”

Sherlock seems so taken aback that John giggles.  _He actually giggles._ He doesn’t remember the last time he did that.

“Can I have my slippers back now, please?”

“So we’re gonna be schoolmates, ain’t we?”

The two boys have spoken in the same moment, their voices mixing together. They stop dead and look at each other, before smiling and resuming walking.

“Here,” John says, handing Sherlock his ballet shoes.

“Thank you,” he says, taking them, “and to answer your question: yes, we are going to be schoolmates.”

“Did you recently move here? I’ve never seen you around.”

“Oh no, I didn’t move. You’ve never seen me because I came here just to look for some weed.”

“Yeah, about that. For a genius you’re really dumb.”

“Why?”

“Well, ya know, coming here with your expensive ballet clothes and asking for drugs is not really what I’d call a great idea.”

“Wait, you think I’m a genius?”

“Don’t be modest now.”

“Oh, I’m really not.”

John smiles up at him and sees – surprise? flickering on Sherlock’s face, before he returns the smile.

For a while they walk in silence, John leading the way and Sherlock following. It’s not an awkward silence though; John always tries to fill in silences, always desperate to be a good company for people. Strangely, with this boy he feels completely at ease, and the thing should worry him, since Sherlock is the oddest bloke he’s ever met. But he’s far too relaxed to worry. Relaxed?  _Relaxed?_  When was the last time he had ever felt not under pressure, not worried sick, not uneasy? Hell, neither when he is with Mary he feels this relaxed. No, he can’t have already…

He clears his throat, “So, ehm, why did you change school?”

That’s the first thing that comes to his mind to prevent it from dig into this last thought too much. He has just met the bloke, Christ!

“I was expelled,” Sherlock replies, as if he’s saying that tomorrow it’s going to rain.

“What the hell did you do to get expelled?” John asks, genuinely curious. The man is always more captivating. Oh God.

“Well, let’s say that apparently, correcting the teachers, blowing up labs and insulting your classmates was not something my previous headmistress was particularly fond of.”

John laughs, and laughs so much that he has to clutch at his stomach with his hands.

“What? What’s funny?” asks Sherlock, and he sounds angry. John laughs even more.

“You-you blew up a lab! I knew you were a fucking mad scientist! What were you doing, Dr. Horrible, were you trying to build a Death Ray?”

Sherlock scoffs, but can’t hold back a smile while he says, “Do you have to be so picturesque?”

“You don’t meet a mad scientist every day,” answers John, grinning like an idiot.

“Anyway, why come to my school? You seem the classic Eton boy.”

“I used to go there, but I hated the place, so I asked my mother to move me. I changed school every year since then, but that’s not important anymore, next year I’ll go to Uni,” he shrugs.

Ah, so he’s John’s age. He had initially thought he was much younger than him.

“I usually choose the schools, but this year was my mother’s idea,” Sherlock continues, “my cousin goes there too, and she wanted me to have at least one friend in my new school. Well, to be honest, we’re hardly cousins, since she’s my father’s step-sister’s daughter. Perhaps you know her, she’s always telling me how popular she is,” at this Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Dull.”

“Well, tell me her name, then.”

“Irene Adler.”

John’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open. Irene Adler.  _Irene fucking Adler_. Well, he must admit that now that he knows it, he notices that the two actually look alike – same damn sharp cheekbones, black hair, blue eyes, pale skin… And they’re both fucking clever.

“Everyone knows her – the Woman, that’s how they call her, ‘cause, ya know…” he doesn’t know how to continue, so he makes a vague gesture with his hand.

“Yes, I know that boys are attracted to her, and that she gets off on it,” Sherlock rolls his eyes again, and John thinks it must be a habit.

“Yeah but that’s not why she’s called the Woman, really. They started to call her this last year, after she and her friend Anthea started to turn all the rejected girls of the school into man-eaters. It was fun to see all of those shy girls suddenly taking their revenge on the boys who rejected them. Not for those blokes, though.”

Sherlock nods, but John understands that he didn’t know about this fact. After a few seconds, Sherlock starts muttering, then he turns toward him, “Is Anthea the one with long brown hair and brown eyes? Not very tall?” he asks.

“Yes, and she’s also very pretty,” John adds, because she is. John had a crush on her last year.

“Uhm, I understood who she is,” he says.

“Well, you’re a lucky bloke. Your cousin probably introduces you to all her friends.”

“Yes, she does,” Sherlock says, as if it is the most annoying thing, “but if I have to be honest, Anthea is the only one I liked, so far.”

Ah.

“So, you two… you know…” John trails off, because how the hell is he supposed to investigate a stranger’s love life without sounding creepy?

“Are you asking me if she and I had a romantic intercourse?” Sherlock simply asks, and John blushes while nodding. It’s all so damn embarrassing.  

“She’s beautiful, and very clever, but girls are not really my area.”

Oh. _Oh._ John does his best to not start dancing in the middle of the street, and tries (unsuccessfully) not to grin too openly.

“Well then, your boyfriend has no need to worry about the whole ‘cousin’s friends issue’,” John chuckles. He is definitely _not_ flirting, nor implicitly asking him if he has a boyfriend. Oh God. “Unless, obviously, Irene brings home some boys, too,” and that is, by far, the most _awkward_ sentence to have ever escaped his mouth. What was he thinking? He needs help.

“She doesn’t, but even if she did, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Why? You don’t have a boyfriend?” John asks too quickly.

“No.”

John could wave his fists in the air and jump for the happiness. Get a grip, boy. You have a date with Mary later.

“Well, that’s… good.”

Oh God, he hasn’t just said that, everything but that. Sherlock looks at him intensely, then speaks with care, “John, I can’t say I’m not flattered by your interest, but you should know that I’m really not looking for any kind…”

“No, I wasn’t asking, God no,” John thinks he has never blushed more, and staggers out, “it-it was just an absent-minded comment, that’s all, I have a girlfriend, ya know.”

“Good,” says Sherlock, and does he sounds… Disappointed? Damn it Watson, stop it, he has already turned you down, he can’t be disappointed.

“Good,” John repeats.

The silence that follows actually  _is_  awkward, and John would want to kick himself. What the hell was he thinking? He always makes a mess of everything.

“We’re… erm, we’ve arrived,” he says, motioning vaguely at his house door. He fishes out the key from his training bag and holds the door open for Sherlock, who gets inside after just a moment of hesitation.

John leads the way to the small kitchen and tells Sherlock to sit down. Then he takes two pills of ibuprofen and hands them to Sherlock, along with a glass of water. Sherlock eyes them sceptically. John sighs.

“It’s ibuprofen, o ye of little faith.”

“Isobutylphenylpropanoic acid,” Sherlock blurts out, taking the pills from John’s palm and swallowing them.  _Without fucking water._

“Sorry, what?” John  asks.

“Isobutylphenylpropanoic acid, that nonsteroidal, anti-inflammatory drug you just gave me? If you want to be a doctor you should know these things.”

John chuckles and shakes his head because this boy is the most interesting thing that happened to him in months and hell if he will let him go.

“I’ll ask you how you knew about the doctor thing after I come back; don’t move,” he says, before literally  _flying_  in the bathroom upstairs to get patches, hydrogen peroxide and cotton. Back in the kitchen, he puts everything on the table, then opens the fridge and takes some ice, wrapping a towel around it.

“Here,” he says, placing the cold package on Sherlock’s ribs, “hold it still. And now tell me, how did you know I want to be a doctor?”

Sherlock launches himself in a long explanation, blushing furiously whenever John mutters “Brilliant” and barely acknowledging the sting of the hydrogen peroxide on his scratched skin.

They both fall silent when John has to clean the wounds on Sherlock’s face.

After he finishes, John takes a deep breath and then asks, “Do you want a ride home?”

Sherlock stares at him for long seconds. John blushes furiously before adding, “I have a date in the late afternoon and I’ve got a motorbike, I mean, I can take you wherever you like, your bruises were pretty bad, I just thought-”

“John, don’t panic. I accept your offer. Is it a problem for you to get me to the Royal Opera House?”

John gapes at him, staring in wonder at the incredible creature in front of him.

“Y-you are in the Royal Ballet?”

“Obviously.”

Yeah, obviously. What a prat.

“You must be very good then.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Is it near Lincoln’s Inn Field, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“Ok, just let me take a quick shower and I’ll be right back. Uhm, the living room’s that way, you can watch some telly while I’m upstairs. And, erm, here, eat some crisps, you’re already injured, eat something before going to practice” John says, and he can't hide the grin that spreads from ear to ear while he hands the boy a pack of crisps.

Sherlock slowly takes it without a word and then sprawls on the little couch, turning on the TV and switching to Discovery Channel. Really. John smirks at him from behind the sofa, then runs upstairs and enters the minuscule shower. He washes away the dry sweat and the mud of the pitch, using his favourite (and best  smelling) shampoo. He chooses a blue shirt and a pair of black jeans, he combs his hair and wears some cologne (and if he’s doing this with more care than usual it’s  _not_ because of the fascinating stranger downstairs – absolutely not).

When he walks back in the living room, Sherlock is still there. He is a little surprised by this, he had half expected the boy to run away while he was showering.

“Right then,” he says, clasping his hands in front of himself, “Off we go.”

Sherlock turns off the television and gives John the (empty) pack of crisps. John tosses it away muttering something about a “spoiled brat”, before grabbing his wallet, mobile phone and keys and exiting the door.

He leads the way to a little garage in very bad conditions, where a shiny and perfectly kept motorbike stands among the mess.

“Is it a Cleveland CycleWerks?”  Sherlock asks, curiously eyeing the bike.

“Tha Misfist,” John says, blushing.

Sherlock doesn't answer, so John quickly adds, “It’s a cheap bike and when I bought it, it had already been sold twice, so… I know it’s not much but chicks love it and it’s not that bad, right?”

He spoke nervously, fidgeting with his sleeves and looking at the ground. He realises that his speech makes no sense at all and blushes even more. He shouldn’t care so much already of the other boy’s opinion.

“Well, I like it. It’s very you.”

John can’t hide a smile when he hears these words, and he is still smiling when he hands Sherlock a black helmet.

They both hop on the bike and John feels his body burn when Sherlock’s arms wrap around his waist instead of holding the bar behind. He takes a deep breath and tries to concentrate, even though his mind is spinning around with all the sensations that just Sherlock’s arms around him bring him.

The ride is both thankfully long and painfully short, and in about twenty minutes, they find themselves in Bow Street.

Sherlock jumps off the bike with grace, then takes off his helmet and ruffles his hair. At that view, John feels like being punched in the gut. God, he’s so handsome.

“Thanks for the ride, and the uhm… patching up,” Sherlock  says, smiling shyly and handing John the helmet.

“No problem, mate,” answers John, smiling back at him.

"Did I get everything right?" Sherlock asks suddenly, startling John.

"Everything... what exactly?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes while he answers, "My deductions about you, obviously." As if John could read his mind.

"Well, yes. Except one tiny detail."

Sherlock, who lit up at John's first words, now gasps and asks, affronted, "What tiny detail?"

"Harry's short for Harriet." For the first time in years, John doesn't feel like screaming when he says his sister's name.

The look on Sherlock's face is so ridiculous that John can't do anything but laugh, and he's surprised when he hears Sherlock's low baritone joining.

After the laughter dies, they both look at each other for a bit too long, before Sherlock clears his throat and adjusts his bag better on his shoulder.

“Well then, have a pleasant date,” Sherlock mutters, before running inside the Royal Opera House.

“Bye…” John murmurs behind him, but the boy has already disappeared through the doors.

 

oO°Oo

 

He’s been lying on the grass for an hour when Mary arrives.

After having dropped Sherlock off , John had realised that he hadn’t asked the boy’s number, how could they keep in touch? He had been such an idiot. He had gone to the Lincoln’s Inn Fields and started to look for “Sherlock Holmes” on his phone. Sure, he would have seen him every day at school in less than a month, but in the meantime? The research had resulted pointless, since it seemed that the boy had no Facebook profile or anything. Dammit. He had thrown his mobile beside him and lain on the grass, with his arms bent behind his head and a pair of blue-grey eyes tormenting his brain.

“Hey,” purrs a voice in his ear.

John opens his eyes to see Mary crouched beside him, her head bent and a playful smile on her lips. He wraps his fingers around her light scarf and pulls her down in a kiss.

“Hi,” he says, after a quick kiss. They smile at each other until Mary lies down with her head on John’s chest and his right hand in hers.

“Why here?” she asks, playing with John’s fingers.

“Why not? It’s a nice park, and we always go to the cinema these days. It’s summer, let’s do something summer-ish.”

Mary giggles and turns on her side, capturing John’s lips with hers.

John kisses her back and tries not to think of Sherlock Holmes, dancing in tights just a few street away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. John's bike:  
>   
> 2\. [Here](http://www.balletformen.com/2009/09/10/an-intro-to-men%E2%80%99s-ballet-apparel/) I found a lot of infos about male dancers' clothing. So, the terms I'll use for Sherlock's ballet clothes, will have been taken from here. 
> 
> Thank you very much for your kudos, you're all a bunch of lil sweethearts, I love you all c:
> 
> Bye!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Yes, I know, I'm terribly late, but guess what? This fic now has a beta! Yeee  
> So, many many thanks to my lovely and great beta [Jamie](http://maps-with-stars.tumblr.com/)! I really don't know what I would post, without their help :)
> 
> (oh and btw, I suggest you to check the previous chapter, I may have changed a few bits, sorryy)

Three days later John is sitting on the couch beside his mother,  watching telly. A can of beer for him and a glass of water for her, they  pretend to enjoy the meaningless words that escape from the fat woman on the screen.

Julia Watson, forty-five years old in November, looks pale and tired, and her brown eyes have lost the spark that in the past had gained her many lingering looks and compliments. John doesn’t move, doesn’t look at his mother, doesn’t laugh at the jokes that Connie Prince is making: this is his ritual now, almost every day since Harry died, Julia and John Watson pretend to watch the television like they did before, but nothing is the same.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings, startling John. his mother doesn’t move, too absorbed in her thoughts.

The seventeen year-old gets up from the couch in relief; it doesn’t happen often that he can escape from his tv-afternoon with his mother. He is also curious, though - who could it be? Mary left for Paris yesterday, and all his friends are on holiday as well: Mike in Surrey, Molly in Bournemouth, Bill in New York… he can’t think of any other of his friends who knows his address, really.

He opens the door and before he can see who is on the doorstep, he is invaded by a swirl of black curls and slender limbs.

“John!” the tornado yells, grabbing him from the shoulders.                                                                                             

“Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here?” John  asks, surprised as he watches the taller boy with wide-opened eyes.

He is wearing a light, blue jumper. It’s long enough to end  below his bum, and its neckline leaves a shoulder uncovered, showing a black undershirt beneath. He’s also wearing black tights (those damn tights, hasn’t he got normal trousers?) that go to his knees and navy blue Vans. John can’t help but think he’s stunning.

“I need your help,” says Sherlock, matter of factly, spinning John around and pushing him towards the open door.

“Wha- hey I need to tell my mum I’m going out, wait!” John exclaims, turning back and looking at Sherlock, who stares back at him.

“Fine,” the boy shrugs, “I’ll wait for you outside,” he adds, and then, in another swirl,  leaves.

John looks at the empty corridor breathless; that boy is pure energy. In a few moments he managed to make John’s head spin.

John finds his mother on the couch, looking at him.

“Uhm, mum, I’m erm, going out with a friend. See ya later, yeah?” he says, and the woman just stares and nods lightly before going back to  watching the television, but John knows she isn’t seeing anything.

He looks at her sadly, grabs his wallet (one never knows), his mobile phone and his keys (mum usually doesn’t hear the doorbell, and dad is almost never at home) and then exits his house.

He finds Sherlock pacing nervously back and forth, one of his hands under his chin, the other on his hip.

“So, erm, what’s this all about?” John asks, because Sherlock doesn’t seem to be acknowledging his presence.

“Did you play football? I mean, before high school.”

“How the hell did you know that?”

“There was a picture of you in a football uniform in the corridor, easy,” Sherlock says, shrugging. Then, “Did you start playing rugby because of your sister?” He sounds genuinely curious, not pitying or inquisitive, so John doesn’t feel vulnerable when he answers, “Yes, I started after she died.” Sherlock just nods, and doesn’t look at him like he’s some breakable sodding thing. It makes John feel at ease, not at all uncomfortable or upset, like he usually is at his therapist’s appointments.

“Anyway, you said you needed my help?” he asks, because the other boy seems lost in his thoughts again.

“Oh, yes,” he says, as if he has just remembered that John is there as well.

“I am not in the Royal Ballet, I lied to you. Shush, wait before asking stupid questions. I _used_ to be in it, last year, that’s the school I was expelled from. There are not summer courses, I went there to spy on my former classmates who were just practicing, because one of them, Sarah, asked me to help her find who caused her ‘accident’.”

John doesn’t understand _anything_. What accident? Spy on his classmates? Seriously, what the hell is he talking about?

“Sorry, care to explain as if I couldn’t read your mind?” he asks. 

Sherlock looks at him disdainfully, then sighs heavily and starts speaking more slowly.

“Last year I used to attend the Royal Opera House. As I have already told you, I have been expelled. Three days ago I lied to you so you wouldn’t have asked why I was going there. In the summer they leave some rehearsal rooms opened so the students can practice. Anyway, one of the only classmates I got along with, Sarah, was hurt in an accident last week. Only, she doesn’t think it was an accident, she is sure it was _planned_. Quite plausible, she was the best in our course, after me obviously, and with me kicked out she was the most dangerous dancer, metaphorically speaking. Basically, she went in one of the opened classes to dance and found a very slippery floor, but when she asked, the janitors told her that they hadn’t passed the floor wax already. She asked me to help her find who caused her to break her ankle, an injury that could end her dance career. Would you help me?”

John looks at Sherlock. He stares and stares, because this boy is just impossible, he must be.

“Okay,” he agrees, and to be honest, he doesn’t have to think about it at all.

“Perfect,” says Sherlock grinning, and John thinks his smile could light up an entire city, “Follow me,” he adds.

And John does.

 

oO°Oo

 

“That… was the most… the most ridiculous thing… I’ve ever done,” John says, breathless from the running and the laughter that still fills his lungs.

“And you did a summer camp with the army,” Sherlock retorts, and another wave of glee invests them both, causing them to laugh again.

“That wasn’t just me,” says John, breathing hard.

They are hidden in an empty alley, leaning against a filthy wall and with their shoulders touching.

It turned out that Sherlock needed someone with whom to break into the dormitories of the students of the Royal Opera House, looking for god-knows-what, since in summer they are empty. They  ended up being chased by two big janitors, running through empty halls and crowded streets, in a maze of alleys and smaller streets that apparently only Sherlock knows.

“I hope that our search was useful, though,” John says, smiling at the other boy.

“Indeed it was,” he answers seriously.

“So, you still have to explain me: why did you need my help, in particular?” John asks, pretending not to notice the flush of blood that just rushed to Sherlock’s pale cheeks.

“Well, I-I was bored, and I wanted to thank you for having helped me three days ago,” he says it as if he isn’t blushing as a school girl, and John thinks he is adorable, all embarrassed and babbling.

“Thank me with a break-in and a chase around the whole of fucking London?”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed it.”

“I have,”  it should be odd, but John really means it.

He looks at the time on his phone and curses, “Shit, it’s late.” It’s already 7:43 pm, how did three hours passed so fast?

“If you want, we could have dinner together,” Sherlock suggests, looking sheepishly at the dirty ground.

“Sounds good,” John smiles, “Where?”

Sherlock beams at him and starts leading the way, waving his hands in the air and talking fast about how you can recognize a good Chinese restaurant just from the doorknob.

John didn’t believe it could be true, but after the best Chinese in his life, he thinks he has to revaluate his life’s choices. It turns out that Sherlock knows the owner of the restaurant (“Oh, I just helped him find the employee who filched from the cash register, dull”), so he lets them stay long after they have finished their meals. And it’s good, because John thinks it is impossible to part from that wonder that is Sherlock Holmes.

He tells John how he began to play the violin when he was four, and that he started ballet not long after. That he loves dancing, he’s always loved it, and his other passions are forensics science and chemistry.

He also tells John that his mother was a famous mathematician, but that she gave all up to raise him and his hideous brother Mycroft, seven years older, and that his father invests. He tells John so much about himself and his past, and John listens mesmerized, commenting rarely and always asking the right questions. They laugh a lot and the conversation flows so easily that John wonders how he could have ever talked to somebody else. He then proceeds to tell Sherlock of his and Harry’s little adventures, the summer camp with the army and that time Mike Stamford, his best friend since nursery school, had caused him to break his leg when he hugged him so tightly that they both had fallen down. Sherlock finds this story so funny that he can’t stop laughing, and John thinks he’s beautiful with his eyes crinkled at the corners and his cheeks red.

Eventually, the restaurant closes and they are both surprised to discover it is already 11:00 pm.

Sherlock offers to walk John home, and John reluctantly agrees, because his house is not far from the restaurant, but he hasn’t the faintest idea where Sherlock’s might be, and he doesn’t like the thought of that slender boy wandering around London alone.

They both stand awkwardly on the doorstep, unable to find the right way to depart.

“So, uhm thanks for, you know, the evening” John says eventually, and Sherlock dismisses his words with a wave of his hand, “Don’t mention it.”

“So, maybe see you one of these days?” John asks, blushing furiously and looking everywhere but Sherlock’s face.

“Sure. Give me your number?” Sherlock replies, handing him his mobile phone.

John takes it with a smile and a “Sure,”  and then proceeds to dial his number on the large screen.

“Here,” he says, handing Sherlock his phone back, “And text me when you get home, it’s late. I don’t want to buy the newspaper tomorrow and read ‘posh kid robbed and abducted’.”

Sherlock flashes a smile and then nods, “Well then, see you around”, and with a swirl of his jumper, he disappears in the night, leaving John staring at him.

He enters his house with a smile that vanishes as soon as he sees his mum still on the couch and his father passed out on an armchair.

“Mum,” he murmurs sweetly, kneeling in front of her, “Tell me you have already eaten.”

“Yes, luv,” she says, but her voice is distant, and John knows she is lying. He goes into the kitchen and prepares a sandwich, placing it on a plate along with a glass of water and a sleeping pill.

“Goodnight mum,” he says, handing her everything and placing a kiss on her cheek. She doesn’t reply.

John sighs and jogs up the stairs, going in his room and shutting the door. He is rubbing his hands on his face when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

 

(Fri 11:56pm)

_My awful brother sent a car to pick me up. You don’t have to worry about me being kidnapped by mysterious abductors. –SH_

 

John smiles down at his phone screen, saves the unknown number under the name ‘Sherlock’, then quickly types his answer.

 

(Fri 11:57pm)

Pity. It would have been fun, another chase in the middle of the night. Btw, why did you sign your text? I’d have known who you were ;)

 

(Sat 12:01am)

_Forgive me, I underestimated your deductive skills. Anyway, if you want a chase, I could always climb out of the moving car, the driver would follow me._

(Sat 12:04am)

Please, don’t.

 

(Sat 12:09am)

I was serious, you know. Don’t escape from the car.

 

(Sat 12:11am)

_Don’t worry, John, I wouldn’t have done it. Not tonight, at least. Tomorrow I have an audition at the RAD, the ballet school I will be attending during the year. I need to rest._

(Sat 12:13am)

Well, good luck then!! Let me know how it goes :)

 

(Sat 12:14am)

_Don’t be dull, it will go perfectly. But I accept your wishes._

(Sat 12:15am)

_Goodnight, John._

(Sat 12:18am)

Goodnight, Sherlock.

 

That night, John falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

 

oO°Oo

 

Sherlock’s audition goes well, obviously.

He tells John so that same afternoon, when they are eating their ice creams in Regents Park. He also tells him that he will just do some afternoon classes with the regular students, the ones who study and sleep there. The school made a huge exception, he will be the only out-course student.  John expresses his surprise, asking him why he doesn’t just apply there, but Sherlock tells him that it is his mother’s will, and Violet Holmes cannot be stopped.

John chuckles, “I thought these kind of schools were much more severe,” he says.

Sherlock dismisses his comment, “I’m one of the best dancers of my age anyway. Moreover, my brother has some connections.”

He doesn’t explain further.

The next day they see each other again, and return to Royal Opera House to “collect more data”.

They meet again the day after, and the one that follows, and every day for four weeks.

They go to the park or to John’s house, they talk or investigate about Sarah’s incident. Sometimes Sherlock goes with John to the rugby pitch and throws him some balls, other times it is John who helps Sherlock practicing in the ballet studio he has booked, pressing Play or Stop on the little stereo whenever Sherlock says so.

Watching Sherlock dance is one of the most overwhelming experiences that John has ever had. Sherlock moves as if he owns the place, and it seems like his feet don’t even touch the ground, like he’s made of air, and has a grace in his movements that makes John stare in awe, and he often doesn’t hear when Sherlock shouts “Stop!”, or “Again!”.

Sure, Sherlock is odd; there are times when he and John meet and he doesn’t utter a word, then leaves. Others he starts deducing mean things about the people they see, gaining slaps or insults or even tears, and John is always too shocked to say anything. After though, he scolds Sherlock, telling him how awful or rude his behaviour was.

John starts to write a mental list about Sherlock, just to try to understand him better, and every day he adds something to it.

Sherlock’s favourite ice cream flavour is mint with chocolate chips, even though when he can, he takes vanilla with some honey on it.

Sherlock loves bees. He knows so much trivia about them that John finds himself wondering if he’s inventing some, because he didn’t think bees were so fascinating. Or maybe it’s just Sherlock who makes them seem interesting.

Sherlock is also an expert in forensics science, and knows every big criminal or serial killer of the last two centuries. He tells John that if he didn’t despise the police force and if he didn’t love ballet so much, he would be a detective of some sort. John answers him with an “Amazing!” at which Sherlock looks at him curiously. John tells him that it would be a very exciting job, and Sherlock agrees, adding that he wouldn’t mind the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins, the adrenaline. John shivers.

Sherlock knows a lot about ballet, too: all of the greatest dancers and composers, all of the most important performances and teachers and theatres and schools. He can also play his favourite pieces on the violin, and promises John one day he’ll play for him.

Apart from ballet, Sherlock loves boxing, fencing and swimming.

Sherlock likes dogs. A lot. Whenever he and John meet a dog in the street, he stops and strokes the animal’s head, even those ones that look dangerous or whose owners say: “Careful, sometimes he/she bites!” And the dogs always love Sherlock back, accepting his hand without ever complaining.

Sherlock is a genius, and his grades are very high, although he thinks that school is boring and a waste of his time, which he could spend experimenting.

Sherlock takes his coffee black, with two sugars, and whenever they are in a café or a restaurant, he insists on the spot by the windows, because he likes to look outside.

John learns all this about the boy in just four weeks, and he finds himself thinking often about the nature of their relationship. Sherlock is not ‘just’ a friend, of this he is sure. He doesn’t hang out with his friends so often, and he doesn’t keep a list of their passions and tastes. He doesn’t  stare at them so much either. Best friend? Well, his best friends are Mike, who he knows since he was born, and Molly, his neighbour and schoolmate since primary school. He has known Sherlock for too short a time to call him a best friend. So _what_ are they? John can’t really find an answer.

In just four weeks, he has managed to discovery so much about the boy, and vice versa, Sherlock now knows things about John and his past that even his friends don’t know. Things about Harry, about his nightmares, about his father.  John never has to tell Sherlock any of these things, just confirm or correct them, since the boy seems to read him like an open book.

After four weeks of seeing each other every day, Mary comes back. Now John has to divide his time between his girlfriend and his friend-but-not-really-a-friend and it’s exhausting. Because when he’s with Mary, he can only think of how interesting and fascinating Sherlock is, while when he’s with the boy, he can do nothing but feel guilty about  Mary. Hell, he isn’t cheating on her, is he?

“So, when do you plan to introduce him to me?” Mary asks one day, while they are listening to some awful cd in her room, lying on the bed.

“Who, Sherlock?” John replies nonchalantly, but he perfectly knows she was referring to him, since he has been talking about him for the whole afternoon.

“Yeah, sure. He seems… Charming” she says and hell, of course he seems charming, it’s John who is talking about him! Before he can find a non-awkward way to continue this conversation, his phone rings, and he sighs in relief, lifting it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello, John,” says an well-known voice, “Have I interrupted you?”

“No, of course not Sherlock. Tell me.”

“I have restricted the list of suspects for Sarah’s accidents to three students. Tomorrow I am going to question them. Would you like to come?”

John looks at Mary, who kept her ear near the phone, and she nods with a smile. God, sometimes John thinks he doesn’t deserve her.

“Sure. See you at the usual place?”

The ‘usual place’ is their favourite café, just two streets away from the Royal Opera House.

“Yeah. I’ll be there at three o’clock.”

And without another word, he hangs.

John looks at Mary again and she says that it’s fine, but she wants to meet the guy, for he sounds too particular, with his investigations and his ballet. John doesn’t answer and instead he kisses her.

 

oO°Oo

 

“John?”

John and Sherlock are talking animatedly over their cups of coffee about Sherlock’s latest experiment, involving poisonous plants and the soil they were in. When he hears his name, John’s head snaps up, and he sees his classmates Philip Anderson and Sally Donovan looking with mirroring surprised faces at him and Sherlock.

He smiles and waves at them.

“Sally, Phil!” he exclaims happily, standing up to greet them.

“You know the freak?” Philip asks, glaring at Sherlock, who ignores him. John furrows his brow, “Do you know Sherlock?”

“Yes, of course! He was at the ‘Little Detective Camp’ with us!” says Sally gesturing towards him, “Right, it was seven years ago, but who would forget him?”

“John, let’s go,” Sherlock stands up and tosses some coins on the table.

John doesn’t move. He likes Sally and Philip, especially Sally: she’s one of the best students in the school, and she's always been kind to John. Why would they hate Sherlock?

“Sorry, the ‘Little Detective Camp’?” he asks Donovan.

“Yeah, it’s a summer camp for children from eight to twelve who like mysteries and stuff,” she shrugs, “And this freak was there as well and frightened the shit out of everyone. Like , he was appalled because the murder we had to solve was fake.” She rolls her eyes. “He wanted a real corpse!”

John glares at the couple, then glances at Sherlock, who is looking at the floor.

“Well, this isn’t enough to call him a freak, is it? I guess that anyone passionate enough to go there expected to be helpful in a real murder investigation, especially someone as clever as Sherlock,” he says.

Anderson and Donovan look at him with wide opened eyes.

“Come on Sherlock, we are gonna be late,” he says, taking Sherlock by the arm and dragging him out of the café, leaving the couple gaping at their backs.

“Those idiots,” he mutters, “who do they think they are, spitting their inane opinions like they matter.”

“John.”

“And calling you names, like… Jesus! How dare they?”

“John.”

“How old were you, mmh? Ten? And you were already brave enough not to be scared by a corpse, you just wanted to investigate, to be useful, didn’t you?”

“John.”

“What?” he exclaims, stopping dead and looking at Sherlock.

“As much as I appreciate your concern, I feel compelled to tell you that you don’t have to defend me, most people don’t like me.”

“Most people are idiots,” John sentences, seriously. Sherlock laughs, but there is something bitter in it, and John doesn’t like it.

“I guess it’s true,”  Sherlock says eventually, then looks at John with a smile.

John smiles back and then they enter the Royal Opera House.

 

oO°Oo

 

“An idiot, a blind idiot!” Sherlock screams angrily when they are out of the building.

“It wasn’t any of them, any of the three suspects! I have to start again!”

He’s furious, and John doesn’t know what to do, how to calm him down.

“See you soon, John. I need to think. Goodbye.”

He hails a cab and goes away, leaving John behind.

He merely sighs, he’s used to it by now, and starts walking towards his house, thinking about the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, you can do a sort of summer camp with the army even if you are a high school student. Wow. I can't find the link again, jeez I should save them. Anyway, it's useful if you want to join the army later, and this is why John did it.  
> 2\. I really can't see Sherlock at the [Royal Ballet School](http://www.royalballetschool.org.uk/the-school/life-at-school/), look at the timetable, I think he would freak out after 3 days haha. This is the reason why I couldn't really see him at the [RAD](http://www.rad.org.uk/learn-to-dance/our-dance-school-in-london/) too. He'll just go there in the afternoon, let's give lil' sweet Sherlock the morning with his John :)
> 
> As always, many many thanks for reading, bookmarking or leaving kudos!  
> Let me know what you think in the comments (i love reading them) or write me on [tumblr](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/) if you have it :)
> 
> Till the next chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short version: not dead. 
> 
> I AM SO SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! I swear it won't happen again. Many things happened, too long to expain. Next chapter is almost finished, so the waiting will be shorter :)
> 
> As usual, many thanks to [Jamie](http://maps-with-stars.tumblr.com/), always willing to help even if very busy :)
> 
>  
> 
> **TW for drugs mention**

Sherlock  smokes his last cigarette before class, leaning against the school wall, watching the hateful students passing by. He’s not waiting for John Watson, of course he’s not. And if he smokes another cigarette, well, that’s just because he wants to. Oh, but who is he trying to fool? He has been standing there like an idiot for forty minutes, and spent each and every single one of them thinking about John. Why is he so late?

No, he’s not late. It’s Sherlock who arrived too early. Maybe John is already inside the school, because he didn’t want to be seen around the new kid. Nah, he stood up for Sherlock in front of Phil and Sally, he’s not bothered by being seen with him. But what if he is? Sherlock inhales deeply, and feels the sweet aroma of tobacco filling his lungs. He needs to focus. Think about something else. Yes, think about Sarah’s case.

They solved it only three days before. Sherlock deduced that the culprit was Fiona Merriweather, upper-class girl, the typical person who hates being second. Sarah was chosen to be the first ballerina for the summer exhibition, and Fiona never quite got over it. Particularly because Sarah’s male co-protagonist and current boyfriend was Fiona’s ex, for whom she was still pining. In fact he broke up with her because Fiona was going to move to South America, and he couldn’t be bothered with long distance relationship. Sherlock suspected of her from the beginning, but the girl had moved with her parents the day before the accident.

After over a month of research and false leads, Sherlock had managed (through hacking the airport database, but no one needs to know about that) to discover Fiona faked her and her parents’ departure. In fact, she hadn’t left on the 1st of August, as everyone thought; the airport record specifically said she left on the 3rd. Sherlock then found out that she convinced her parents to spend a couple of days before the leaving in a hotel near the airport, probably telling them that her ex-boyfriend didn’t want her to go and was being obsessive, or something like that. She then proceeded to inform everyone she knew that they were leaving earlier. She also posted some pictures of the airport on her Facebook and Instagram.

Then, on the 2nd of August,  she snuck into the school, saw which room Sarah booked, made the floor slippery just before Sarah’s arrival and then left. Easy peasy, even though it was bit of a hard work just to cover an injury.

Sherlock only told John about Fiona’s motives and alibi, but John  wondered too about the structure of the plan; it was just too elaborated. Sherlock shrugged and told him human nature was a bizarre mix of inexplicable phenomena. John laughed at Sherlock’s words and then congratulated with him, offering him a coffee and a warm smile that made Sherlock (unnervingly) blush.

But Sherlock  knew perfectly well that Fiona wasn’t the one who planned the accident.

James Moriarty, the most dangerous boy Sherlock has ever met, _he_ is behind all this. Machinating, planning, orchestrating -  Jim Moriarty is the person you go to if you have a problem. _Dear Jim, will you fix it for me?_

Sherlock knows Jim far too well, but he doesn’t want John to know about him   or _why_ he and Jim were so close. Because he hasn’t discovered Jim’s little hobby by chance, or just following a logical chain of thoughts. Oh, no. He and Jim Moriarty were _friends_. or at least, Jim was a companion in his solitude.

It all began in Chemistry class - how appropriate. Sherlock was bored to death in his desk, the last in  the row, and he was sat beside the new Irish kid, a little boy with dark hair and even darker eyes. He didn’t like when people sat with him in Chemistry or any other lesson, he preferred being on his own.

Sherlock decided to kill two birds with a stone, and found the perfect plan to both have a little fun and maybe scare off the new guy . That day they were working with Potassium Chlorate (something dull and useless, surely), but Sherlock knew exactly what to do to make this compound more interesting. He eagerly grabbed a test tube and put some crystals of the compound in it. Then he turned on the flame at 500 °C  and melted the crystals, leaving in the test tube just a transparent liquid. The boy sat beside him started to show interest, smirking from his right. Strange that he hadn’t already asked Sherlock what he was doing. Instead, he whispered, with a voice smooth as silk, “I assume you do know that when Potassium Chlorate reaches its melting point, any item added to it will cause a rapid disintegration in the form of an explosion.”  


Sherlock, startled, looked at him. The boy seemed so calm, almost amused.

“But you aren’t going to tell Mrs. Clifton,” he stated, rather suspicious.

“Of course not, don’t be obvious” the other boy scoffed, “I was hoping of having a little fun, since this lesson makes me want to kill myself.”

Sherlock just stared at the boy. Could it be that he found someone who was like him?

“Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name before, I never listen to Mrs. Clifton. She’s a moron, as you probably noticed,” he said, smirking.

“James Moriarty, but you can call me Jim, Sherlock,” Jim  said, smiling from ear to ear, and  emphasizing Sherlock’s name.

Sherlock nodded, then fished a gummy bear out of his trousers pocket. He heard Jim stifling  a laugh beside him, and he couldn’t help but grin at himself as he carefully inserted the sweet in the test tube.

Immediately, a loud and prolonged noise filled the room, along with a powerful flash which lit the room in pink. All the eyes turned to look at them. A few girls screamed, while Mrs. Clifton (finally) stopped talking.

The test tube on Sherlock and Jim’s shared desk was emanating steam and was still glowing that shocking shade of bright pink, like the gummy bear that Sherlock had put inside.

“Holmes!” Mrs. Clifton yelled, outraged, “Will you ever learn? To Mrs. McGreevy’s office, _now_.”

“Actually Mrs. Clifton, I am as much involved as Mr. Holmes here. Shouldn’t I be sent to the headmistress’s office as well?”  asked Jim evenly, an angelic smile on his face.

Mrs. Clifton looked at him in disbelief, and her incredulous expression was mirrored by several other students, Sherlock among them.

“Mr. Moriarty, I really didn’t expect such a behaviour from your behalf. Don’t get caught in the wrong friendships,” the teacher said, glaring pointedly at Sherlock. “ Follow Mr. Holmes to the headmistress’s office, but I do hope next time I will have to send only Holmes.”

Jim followed Sherlock out of the room and down the corridor, his hands stuffed in his pockets and a creepy grin that it seemed couldn’t be wiped off his face.

“You didn’t need to do it. I wouldn’t have made your name,” said Sherlock, rather stiffly, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I know,” answered Jim, smugly, “I was just trying to escape that lesson, like you.”

On their way to the office they chatted. They discovered shared interests, and Sherlock even managed to make Jim laugh. No one laughed at his rude humour before. He couldn’t believe his luck when Jim accidentally told him his IQ, and it was very similar to his.

Sherlock couldn’t dare to think he had found a friend, especially after the mess he had made with Victor. And Jim Moriarty was twisted, creepy as fuck, granted, but could Sherlock ask for anything better? No one wanted to be his friend, he should be grateful for Jim. Who went in his room to bitch about the other students and looked at his experiments. Who had lunch with him at his otherwise empty table. Who offered to be his dance partner when no one else wanted. Who covered him that time when he said he was feeling sick and instead stayed in his room dissecting a bird. Who confided him that he was very good at organizing troubles on behalf of other people. Who sold him his first grams of cocaine.

“It helps you chill down, Sherl. Shuts off that big brain of yours. Helps you be a better dancer. Makes you forget the other idiots in this useless school.”

After weak resistances Sherlock yielded and Moriarty was right. It did help him focus, it did make him shaper, it did make him more precise in his movement. It did stop him from feeling humiliated by his schoolmates. But Sherlock didn’t know limits, and neither did Jim Moriarty, who continued to sell Sherlock  larger and larger doses every time.

But even Sherlock Holmes had a breaking  point.

He had an overdose in early May. Thank god he fainted  against his bedroom door, so someone heard the noise and immediately called for help.

After this episode his parents removed him from the school of “incompetent idiots who didn’t notice” and kept him home for the last couple of months of school. Jim Moriarty  came once to say hello. Sherlock  didn’t let him in.

At the end of July he was allowed to exit the house again, and he immediately went looking for some lighter drugs, just to forget the awful overprotectiveness of his family.

Sherlock smiles at the memory of looking for weed in that bloody hot first day of freedom. He hasn’t touched any drug for the whole summer; he found something exquisitely better. John Watson.

_Who is now walking towards him holding hands with a blond girl._

John happily waves his free hand from afar, a wide grin on his face, and  drags his girlfriend along  while he marches in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock tries to maintain his neutral face, but he discovers that he just can’t. His lips curl upwards in a smile.

“Sherlock!” John exclaims when he is near enough. He stops in front of Sherlock  and stares up at him with a gleeful expression. Maybe he really is happy to see him.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock answers with a grin, and then turns his head towards the girl.

“And you must be Mary. Glad to finally meet you,” Sherlock says politely.  He rehearsed what to say to Mary in front of the mirror that morning. He doesn’t know how he managed to earn John’s friendship, but hell, he won’t make John regret it. And if Mary is an important person to John, he won’t be the usual obnoxious arsehole.

She smiles at him and frees her right hand from John’s grip, holding it to Sherlock.

“Nice to meet you, too. I really couldn’t wait, John never shuts up about you!” she says.

Sherlock shakes her hand and looks at John, whose ears are now red with embarrassment.

“Only nice things, I hope,” Sherlock winks at Mary and she giggles, while John scoffs and is about to say something, when a loud voice interrupts him.

“Maryyy!” a brunette yells, throwing her arms around Mary’s neck.

“Oh my god I’m so happy to see ya! It’s been sooo looong! I really did miss you! When I was in Berlin you were in London, when you were in Paris _I_ was in bloody London and then now you spent this last week with Mr. Watson here. Yeah yeah, I’m so happy for you guys but remember, Mary: chicks before dicks!”

The girl has spoken at an alarming speed, and Sherlock is mesmerized by her skill of saying so many useless things in one sentence. Fascinating.

“Janine!” Mary exclaims amused, batting the other girl’s arm, “Behave yourself, it’s just the first day!”

“Hello to you too, Janine. How are you?” asks John, smiling patiently at her. Sherlock deduces they must have known each other for a long time.  Primary or secondary school? He’s too absorbed in his deductions about Janine (divorced parents, desperately looking for a relationship, but has commitment issues) that her last few words catch him completely out of guard.

“And who’s this handsome dark stranger? Care to do introductions?” she asks Mary and John, batting her dark eyelashes at Sherlock. He blinks, while Mary smiles and John clenches his jaw (“ _Curious,_ ” thinks Sherlock).

“Janine, this is Sherlock. He’s new at school, friend of John’s,” says Mary, and Sherlock mechanically offers his hand to Janine, who grabs it and shakes it vigorously.

“Nice to meet you!” she exclaims, grinning from ear to ear.

“Erm, you too,” Sherlock answers, startled.

“Since you’re new, would you want me to give you the full tour?” Janine asks smugly, looking at Sherlock with a funny expression. Is she… flirting? With _him_? Sherlock can’t help but find the whole situation amusing, so he smiles while he answers, “Sorry, I already promised John he can be my Cicero.”

Three pairs of eyes look at him blankly, then John slowly asks, “Cicero?”

Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Marcus Tullius Cicero, Roman orator. He was known to be very eloquent and in some of his letters he describes Greece and its residences with much effectiveness and diligence. The  letters became famous, so in 1855 Jacob Burckhardt published ‘Der Cicerone: Eine Anleitung zum Genuss der Kunstwerke Italiens’,” Sherlock doesn’t slow his talking pace, delivering the German words with certainty , “Since then, Cicero is well known, apart from being very loquacious,  for being the guide for excellence. Therefore, when I said John would be  my Cicero, I merely stated that he'll be my guide for the day.”

Everyone is still staring at him, and he’s starting to feel a little uncomfortable, when John says, “You see? I told you he was a genius!”

Sherlock looks at John and sees his proud expression. Something in his chest tightens.

Janine and Mary smile at him as well, then Janine says, “Well, we’ll  leave you to your tour then, “ and Mary leans to kiss John on the mouth (Sherlock ignores every instinct that’s pushing him to strangle her).

The girls wave goodbye and promise to see them in the canteen before disappearing through the door.

 John passes his hand through his hair and then rests it on his nape.

“Well, have you already taken your timetable?” John asks.

Sherlock merely waves a piece of paper under John’s nose and says, “First period: Biology.”

John grins up at him, “Same.”

He heads towards the door motioning his hand to invite Sherlock to follow him, “C’mon then, I’ll be your ‘Cicero’, you arrogant prat,” he says, but he’s smiling affectionately at him, so Sherlock doesn’t take it as an offense.

Naturally, Sherlock has already memorized the school map in his mind, and he  knows where the Biology building is. He just wants to walk with John for a while, at least until his teammates find out about their friendship and John will be so mortified that he’ll stop seeing Sherlock. A few more hours left, before everything goes to pieces.

John chats merrily all along the way, pointing to the various classrooms and buildings for Sherlock, and telling him some funny stories about the places they pass by. Sherlock, rather than actually listening to the words, is just drinking in John’s voice, his laughter and the way he says his name.

They enter the Biology classroom, and John is greeted by a thin boy (who Sherlock foresees will probably be overweight in his thirties, judging the chocolate on his fingers and the candy bar in his pocket) with a pair of brown glasses and an amiable smile on his face.

“Hi, John!” he exclaims, stretching his arm towards John.

“Mike!” John says happily, taking Mike’s hand in his and knocking their shoulders together, hugging him with his free arm.

“Okay, may I do introductions? Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford,” John says, gesturing between the two, “Mike Stamford, Sherlock Holmes.”

They both shake hands, exchanging polite smiles. Mike eyes curiously John, who avoids his eye, and Sherlock finds himself lost for the first time.

“Ah, here you are Holmes, I couldn’t bloody find you,” a too well known voice exclaims behind him.

Sherlock freezes on the spot and spins around to glare at Greg Lestrade.

“You,” he hisses angrily.

“Yes, hello, it’s me. Is everything okay?”

“Not, it bloody hell isn’t! This is Mycroft, isn’t it?”

Greg snorts loudly and says, “Listen, I don’t do everything your brother tells me, alright?”

“He pays you! Of course you do! He made you change school to keep an eye on me? This is extreme, even for him! And my parents just _let him_? Why does nobody trust me?”

Lestrade meaningfully clears his throat and Sherlock scolds at him.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?” Greg asks amicably, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder to look at John’s and Mike’s astonished expressions.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, so Greg holds out his hand to John, “You must be John. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you; the bloke here is always talking about you.”

John looks a bit taken aback and weakly shakes his hand.

“Erm, yeah… Nice to meet you too. This is Mike,” he says. The four fall silent, while other people enter the classroom. Greg clasps his hands together and turns towards Sherlock, “Right, ray of sunshine, your brother managed to give me your same timetable, except for Chemistry, I don’t take that one. Shall we sit in the front row?”

Sherlock pointedly ignores him, but he marches nonetheless towards a desk on the first row and sits down very theatrically.

Greg sighs as if he’s used to it and takes his place beside Sherlock.

“First, you breathe on my neck for the whole summer, then you start attending my own school! Aren’t you pushing it a bit far, Gregory?” Sherlock whispers, anger spilling from his eyes, and Greg knows he really is furious, since he’s just used his first name.

Greg Lestrade was a normal teenager, until a year ago, when his brother, only one year his senior, died from a cocaine overdose. Everyone in his family had overlooked the signs, especially him, to whom his brother had often indirectly asked for help. Greg had joined a support group for family members, and discovered a talent of his: he could listen. Joan, the therapist who held the group, took him in sympathy, so when he asked if he could take a course to help people with drugs issues even though he was underage, she agreed.

In less than six months he completed the course, and started to help Joan in her sessions. There he met the Holmes, mother, father and brother of a seventeen-year-old cocaine addict, who was just recovering from his first overdose.

It was Mycroft Holmes who noticed Greg, and offered him a job as Sherlock’s personal tutor. He thought being peers would make it easier for Sherlock to accept Greg’s help, and he was right.

It was hard at the beginning to gain Sherlock’s trust, but after that everything went well.

Every afternoon Sherlock would hang out with this ‘John’ (and he and all the family were happy but startled at the idea of Sherlock with a friend) and almost every evening, he and Greg would have a chat in Sherlock’s room, or just watch a movie.

Only a week before the school started, Mycroft had asked Greg if he’d mind to change schools to better follow Sherlock’s progress but also to keep an eye on him and this ‘John’, that no one knew (even though Mycroft had probably already downloaded his whole life story).

Greg had agreed to change school, partly for the money, mostly because he had grown fond of the posh bastard.

“Listen, Sherlock,” Lestrade murmurs, sighing and passing a hand over his face, “It’s in your interest. We all trust you, we do, it’s this school and the people who come here we don’t trust.”

“Oh come on, no one has cocaine, just weed! Now everyone is scared of the big bad school? Don’t talk rot Lestrade, god knows you already do it normally.”

Greg sighs again and turns to completely face Sherlock, “Want the truth, kiddo? Here’s the truth: you did very well this summer, but first, a relapse is everything but uncommon in your stage of progression and second, you spent like a month with just this John Watson who turned out from the blue, and who casually attends your new school, so yeah, this is why I’m here. But not because your brother asked me to, Sherlock; I’m here because I fucking care about you and your health, so shut up, swallow your sodding pride and let me help you.”

Sherlock glares at him, then slowly says, “Fine,” and faces the blackboard.

Greg’s smile could light up a city, “Oh and by the way, I really like that Watson fella.”

Sherlock ignores him.

 

oO°Oo

 

At the end of the lesson, John comes beside Sherlock and offers to walk him and Lestrade to Chemistry, but Greg politely declines, since he doesn’t take that subject.

On their way to Chemistry, John doesn’t talk as much as before.  Sherlock starts to panic - has John already had enough of him? His palms are sweaty and his throat hurts, as though a lump is stuck in there, and he can’t stop either of the two annoying physiological responses to John's silence.

“Who was that bloke?” John suddenly asks.

“You mean Greg?”

John nods and looks expectantly at him.

Sherlock ponders whether to tell him the truth or invent a lie. He chooses to do something in between.

“He’s my ‘baby-sitter,’” he says with disdain. “My awful brother sends him wherever I go.”

“Don’t do that face, I saw you got along well in Biology.”

“Well, the fact that I tolerate his company doesn’t mean at all that I appreciate my brother’s politics, or Greg’s role in my life.”

John nods, and then says, “Your brother is overprotective, I get it, but can’t your parents do something about this? It sounds pretty extreme.”

“You don’t know enough of me and my family to judge, John,” Sherlock says, a bit more harshly than he intended.

John bows his head and looks at his shoes, his ears red with embarrassment.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… be disrespectful.”

Sherlck sighs. “It’s fine, John. I am a bit touchy about this issue. Of course, I’ll understand if you won’t want to come to my house after school, it would be totally legitimate, and I wouldn’t protest, you are free to-”

Sherlock’s monologue is cut short by John’s hand on his arm, “Sherlock, hey look at me. Don’t start doing that weird as fuck thing you do when you panic and don’t stop blabbing. Take a deep breath.”  Sherlock does, because John’s voice is so authoritarian it  makes his mind go blank and follow the order.

“Good. Of course I’m still coming to yours this afternoon, your mother wanted to meet me and we have to tattle about our teachers, remember?” He smiles warmly up at Sherlock, who’s having a hard time breathing. He’s luckily saved from his embarrassment by Irene, who is walking down the hall  with her arms wide open and Anthea on her phone walking beside her. 

“Sherlock, my dear cousin! Here you are! I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

“Irene,” he says smiling, opening his arms to hug her tightly.

“What’s your next period?” she asks, a wide grin on her pretty face.

“Chemistry.”

“Psychology is near there, would you want me to walk you?”

“No thanks, Irene. John’s got Chemistry too,” Sherlock answers, waving his hand in front of John.

Irene eyes him curiously, as if she’s only now noticed his presence, and a playful smile curls up her thin lips.

“Hello, Watson,” she says, with a flirtatious tone.

“Hi Irene,” John answers with a quick nod.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Will I see you tonight at dinner, Sherlock?” Irene asks. That stupid smile still on her face it’s starting to annoy Sherlock.

“Yes of course, it’s Monday, isn’t it? God forbid the Holmes-Adlers miss their weekly dinner. Why are you asking?”

“Oh I don’t know, I thought you’d been...” she glances at John, “…busy.”

And with this she leaves with a dramatic swirl, Anthea right beside her, never taking her eyes off the screen or saying goodbye.

Sherlock and John remain frozen in their spot, unable to speak or look at each other. Eventually, Sherlock clears his throat and says, “We’re  gonna be late.”

“Yes, yes, you’re, erm… yes.”

“John, say ‘yes’ once again and I swear I will strangle you,” Sherlock says with a fond smile.

John smiles back at him and they resume walking.

 

oO°Oo

 

While they are walking  to lunch Sherlock can’t stop talking excitedly about Mrs. Hudson, their Chemistry teacher. John listens with a fond look and the occasional “I know, I was there too.” But Sherlock if far too  besotted with his new teacher, and he just goes on babbling happily about her ‘brilliant’ lesson and even jumping a little.

Sherlock and John are among the first students to get to the canteen, and they choose an empty table in the centre of the room. Sherlock has never been at the centre of the canteen, where the popular kids usually eat; he’s always stayed in the corner, alone. So he can’t help but feel awkward and out of place when the table starts filling with John’s teammates.

He is shocked when John introduces him to the other boys and they just smile at him and _don’t mock him or insult him_. Yeah, he hasn’t uttered a word, but usually one glance at his odd look was enough to make people think of him as a weirdo.

When Mike arrives the table is already full, so he grabs another table and smashes the two together, and joins lunch. Now Sherlock is sat at a _double_ table, beside who appears to be the most popular kid of the school. Great. He can’t wait to just go home and forget the noise, the people.

But obviously it can only get  worse. Mary and Janine arrive, and Mary sits on John’s lap, among whistles and comments from the teammates, while Janine takes a place directly  in front of Sherlock, and stares at him from underneath her black eyelashes.

Sherlock wants to evaporate, to find a damn way out of this mess of laughter and John not looking at him. Maybe if he finds how to disappear he can bring John with him. Fly out of the window hand in hand, hover over that great city, gently dancing on the roofs.  


He is imagining this idyllic scenario in his mind –him and John dancing among the clouds, light as feathers, when Greg walks past the doors with Irene and Anthea. They are looking at the table in disbelief and even Anthea glances up of her phone to make an incredulous face. Sherlock rolls his eyes and the three slowly walk towards him. They sit beside Janine, in front of Sherlock, and they still cannot wipe off their   idiotic expressions. Greg glances at Irene, who returns the look, and then they both turn to face Sherlock. Greg is about to say something, but then closes his mouth and turns to Anthea.

“What,” snaps Sherlock, glaring at them.

“N-no nothing Sherlock, it’s just… We didn’t expect you to…” Greg trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

“Greg if you seriously think I’d be offended by you claiming I’ve never been the popular kid, then you understood very little of me.”

Lestrade looks almost ashamed, and Sherlock considers that a sweet victory during that awful lunch.

Anthea finally looks back at her phone and Irene starts blathering with Greg about something Sherlock doesn’t really care about.

Luckily lunch finishes soon, and John leans towards Sherlock.

“I have Maths now,” he says, trying not to disturb Mary too much with his movements.

“Greg and I have English,” Sherlock answers, and John’s smile falters.

“Well, I uhm… I guess if we don’t get another period together we’ll meet right outside the school?”

Sherlock nods, then grabs his bag and Greg’s arm, and they both disappear through the doors.

 

oO°Oo

 

Sherlock, for the second time in the same day, is leaning against the sodding wall, smoking his sodding cigarette, waiting for sodding John Watson to part from his sodding girlfriend. Can’t she take her stupid lips off his mouth? But then, why would Sherlock care, John is his friend. He doesn’t give a fuck about how much time those two make out (oh my god eighty-two seconds, _how do they even breathe_ ).

Finally they separate, look stupidly at each other, then Mary waves goodbye at Sherlock and goes away.

“So,” says John, clasping his hands together, his mouth too red for Sherlock’s liking, “car or feet?”

Sherlock gives himself another seven seconds to be angry (for whatever reason, that certainly isn’t jealousy) and to inhale a last drag of his cigarette.

“Car,” he answers, smashing the fag end with his shoe and blowing out the smoke still in his mouth.

“Seriously, Sherlock?”

“W-what? Yeah seriously, by car, did you think I was joking?” Sherlock replies confused.

“No, not that, I mean… Almost professional dancer and you _smoke_?” he sounds incredulous, and Sherlock sighs. He doesn't tell him that his system endured worse chemicals than carbon monoxide and deadlier drugs than nicotine.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he shrugs. John eyes him with that annoying look that says ‘yeah, whatever’ and Sherlock feels the impulse to punch it off his face.

“The car’s here,” he says and heads towards the black sedan that’s just entered the parking.

John widens his eyes and gapes at it, then follows Sherlock inside.

Sherlock knocks on the glass that divides them from the driver and says, “There’s no one else, we can go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. About the experiment... I didn’t invent anything. Yeah, you got me, science geek. Here, [have a look](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txkRCIPSsjM).
> 
> 2\. The underlined sentence is an actual quote from “A Case of Identity”, in the ACD canon: “ ‘My dear fellow,’ said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, ‘life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on […] it would make fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.’ ”  
> I won’t even start to talk about how gay this whole speech is. Anyway, in this fic Sherlock imagines the same scenario that Holmes does but, being this a balletlock, he thinks of him and John dancing, instead of watching other people.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE (whoever is still with me) and please leave a comment, I love them :)  
> Also thank you for the kudos/bookmarks :)  
> Come say 'hi' on my [tumblr](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really is a funny story behind this awful delay.  
> A story for another day. 
> 
> Beta'd by [Jamie](http://maps-with-stars.tumblr.com/), thank you dear :)

Holmes manor is _huge._ John knew Sherlock’s family was wealthy, but he would never have guessed _this_ wealthy. He stands breathless in front of the palace (because _it is_ a palace, much as Sherlock continues repeating that it’s just a house John, don’t be ridiculous), and Sherlock has to take him by the arm and drag him inside, where a butler ( _a butler)_ takes their light coats.

“John, please do close your mouth,” Sherlock says looking at him with a playful smile.

John hits him with his shoulder, “You didn’t tell me you were fucking Richie Rich.”

Sherlock shoots him a confused look, and John shakes his head with mock desperation, “Your cinematographic culture is truly appalling.”

“I doubt that any film with a character with a name as stupid as Richie Rich deserves my attention.”

John sighs heavily and smiles, and he is about to make a comment about Sherlock’s arrogance, when a female voice reaches them.

“Sherlock, sweetie, I’m making you boys a snack in the kitchen.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and screams, “We’re coming, Mum!”

John follows him through a long corridor, and he’s starting to feel a little nervous at the thought of meeting Sherlock’s mother for the first time. What will she think of him, son of the London working class? He swallows hard and prepares himself for the harsh judgement he knows he is about to receive.

When he walks through the kitchen door, he sees a round woman, with salt-and-pepper hair and a colourful shirt. She’s happily preparing some tea, and she snaps her head up when she hears their steps.

John is surprised to see a kind face who smiles at him warmly, her grey-blue eyes incredibly familiar.

“Hello dear, you must be John. Please, please have a seat, I’m almost done here. Sherlock, how rude of you, offer our guest a chair!”

Sherlock sighs heavily and gestures towards an empty chair, and John sits down, incredibly relieved that this woman is a normal human being and not some sort of rich superspy.

“Thank you for having me, Mrs Holmes, I’m glad to meet you,” John says politely, allowing his lips to curl up a bit. Sherlock’s mother tilts her head and shoots him another smile.

“The pleasure is all mine, John. And please, call me Violet.”

John grins widely at her, nodding, “Ok then, Violet.”

She pours the tea in three mugs (thank god they are not using some ancient Chinese porcelain, just normal mugs) and approaches the boys, handing them their tea and taking a seat  in front of John.

“Would like some scones, dear?”

“Oh they look delicious, thank you Mrs.- Violet”

Violet smiles and hands them to John on a colourful plate. 

“So, John. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

John coughs lightly and glances at Sherlock from the corner of the eye.

“I-uhm, what would you want to know?” he asks, a little daunted by the question.

“Do you play any sport?”

“Yes, I’m the captain of the rugby team.”

“Marvellous. What are your plans for University?”

“Medicine,” John replies with a nod.

Violet whistles and John smiles, “Which University do you want to apply to?”

“Actually, I haven’t decided yet. I have to wait till the response from  the army.”

“The… the army?” Violet asks, confused.

“Yeah, I’ve sent a request to get a Medical Cadetship, just so the army will pay my tuition for Med school,” he chuckles, “Then I guess I’ll be an army doctor. That’s the plan, at least,” he says, smiling around his cup of tea.

“Army, eh? Well it sounds nice. You must get very high A-levels to get a Cadetship, don’t you?”  
“Yes, you do.”

“Well, I wish you good luck.”

“Thanks, the selection’s tough though.”

“I suppose so. Your parents must be very proud of you,” John offers her a tight smile, “Even if I couldn’t bare the idea of my boys leaving for a war,” she shudders.

John shrugs, “I don’t think they’ll notice my absence,” he mutters.

“Mmh?” asks Sherlock’s mum.

“Oh, nothing. I just said that they’re fine with it.”

Violet eyes him suspiciously, and John takes another sip of tea.

“John, forgive me if I ask, just… would you consider yourself a violent person?”

John chokes. Sherlock’s head falls on the table. Violet seems unmoved. Seriously, what? John replays in his head the conversation, was this about the army thing? But most importantly, was this _all_ some sort of interrogation?

Sherlock doesn’t change position, unhelpfully, so John clears his throat and says, “I wouldn’t, no.”

She nods at herself and she’s about to ask something more when Sherlock’s head snaps up, “Enough,” he says, bringing his right hand between him and his mother. They stare at each other intensely, then Violet turns to look at John.

“Just one last question,” she glares at her son, who has opened his mouth to interrupt her again, “you know I must, Sherlock. John, do you have a history of drug or alcohol abuse?”

John’s mouth falls open and he looks at Sherlock for support. Sherlock doesn’t offer any help, just looks expectantly at John too. John understands this must be an important issue to both Sherlock and his mother, and that it’s not about him, it’s something more in general. The real question is, do the _Holmes_ have a history with this?

He inhales deeply, “No, ma’am. I have never used any drugs and never abused alcohol.”

Mrs. Holmes seems satisfied with this answer, and smiles at the boys with approval and… relief?

“Well then, forgive my intrusion, John. You will understand, we are very… sensitive, about this matter,” so John was right, there really _was_ something.

“All right then, off you go. Sherlock, show John around?” Mr. Holmes finishes.

Sherlock nods and stands up, and John follows him, after departing from Violet.

They walk silently for a while, up the stairs and down some corridors, until they get to a huge blue bedroom covered in ballet clothes, test tubes and open textbooks. Sherlock in a nutshell, John thinks. Wait, is that a pirate hat?

“Ok, out with it, you’ve got questions,” Sherlock says, literally throwing himself on the wide bed, half on and half off it, his dark curls grazing the floor.

“One or two, pretty much,” John answers.

Sherlock scoffs and gestures with his hand to a chair beside what looks like to be an expensive wooden desk. John takes a seat, positioning the chair so to face Sherlock, who is intently watching him upside-down.

“What… What was that about? Have you, I don’t know, brought some questionable company  home?”

“Let’s just say that my family has had a bad episode related to drugs,” Sherlock simply says, sounding bored. Nevertheless John can see how uncomfortable he is talking about it. He can read it in his low voice, in his restless playing with the bed sheets. So he drops the topic and asks, “Is this your bedroom?”

“Obviously,” comes the bored answer, but John hears the relief at the change of subject, so he grabs a piece of clothing from the floor (God, Sherlock is so messy) and throws it at the other boy’s face, “Prick,” he says smiling, as the fabric hits Sherlock in the face.

Sherlock falls off the bed and gasps loudly glaring affronted at John, and he looks so ridiculous that John starts laughing so hard he theatrically falls from his chair.

“Your- your face! Oh my god Sherlock, _your face_!” he manages to say.

He’s pretending to wipe away the tears from his eyes when a pillow hits him hard on the cheek.

“Ha, is this a war then?” John asks, grabbing the offensive pillow and stands up to aim better at Sherlock, who is kneeling on his bed with another pillow in his hands.

They stare at each other for long seconds, before they both burst out laughing. Sherlock falls back on his back and holds his stomach, while John throws himself next to him.

Suddenly they hear a light knocking on the door, so they both sit up to compose themselves before greeting whoever is already opening the door.

Violet’s head pokes out into the room, smiling brightly.

“What now, Mum?” Sherlock asks with his usual annoyed face.

“Oh nothing I just-” she tilts her head looking fondly at her son, “I’ll leave you to it.”

She glances at John with happiness in her eyes, lingering a bit before slowly closing the door.

John blinks at the wooden door for a couple of seconds, before turning his attention to Sherlock. He’s looking sheepishly at the pillow in his hands, and his ears have gone red. John puts aside any question about Violet’s strange behaviour and decides to try and make Sherlock feel more at ease, since it’s clear the other boy is embarrassed.

“What the hell is this anyway,” John asks, picking up from the bed the piece of clothing he had tossed at Sherlock, “Where is this supposed to go?”

He’s just trying to clear the air, but to be honest with himself, he’s secretly curious.

Sherlock snatches it from his hands and starts to smooth it on his thighs as he speaks, “It’s a leotard,” he explains, “You wear it as a tank top, but it’s tighter and it’s easier to dance wearing it because it doesn’t slip out from you tights.”

John stares at the synthetic black fabric. He stares and stares, trying not to picture Sherlock wearing it. But his mind is already invaded by a black and white silhouette, with alabaster skin against dark curls and clothes, who is dancing sinuously with eyes closed (as John has seen Sherlock do). _Holy._

“You- ehm,” John clears his throat, “you never wore it this summer, during our little practices,” he manages to say.

“Well, you know, I prefer using t-shirts or tank tops for the less serious practices,” Sherlock answers, “Moreover,” he adds, lowering his voice and losing some of his confidence, “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

John lets that sink in silently.

“Scare me off? How?” he thinks he knows the answer, but he wants Sherlock to be open with him, so that he can tell him exactly what he feels about the whole situation.

“I-I thought that maybe, if you saw me in a leotard, you wouldn’t have wanted to spend your time with me again.”

“Why?” John prompts, speaking softly.

Sherlock snorts, “ _Because_ , I didn’t want you to think of me as a _pansy_.”

John puts his hand on the other boy’s shoulder, and Sherlock looks up at him.

“Hey, I’d still stick around you even if you were, I don’t know, the pansiest boy in London. Cause, what’s the matter? You can dress however the bloody hell you like. And if that something-tard is comfortable for dancing just wear it, okay?”

Sherlock is looking at him with wide open eyes, a mesmerized expression on his beautiful features. He nods at John without breaking eye contact and John smiles at him, “Good, that’s settled then,” he says clasping his hands together.

“Why don’t you show me around the house now? You were fucking running before.”

Sherlock goes back to his half annoyed, half bored expression and stands up, “How much time can you stay here?”

“Oh God, this will take the whole afternoon, won’t it?”

 

oO°Oo

 

Three hours later find them lying on two deckchairs in the backyard, drinking lemonade and laughing while they talk about their shared teachers and classmates.

“Stop, stop Sherlock you’re bloody brilliant, help I’m chocking,” John can’t stop laughing, and he’s currently trying not to suffocate himself with the lemonade, while Sherlock does a perfect impression of Mr. Cunningham, the old, bald and rather pedant teacher from English.

“Thank god we don’t have English together, or else I’d get expelled in two lessons,” John says, “Although, now you have permanently ruined my image of him. Jesus, Sherlock! How will I be able to look at him the same way again?”

“My opinion on the matter, Mr. Watson is that…”

“I said stop!” John giggles, smacking Sherlock’s arm.

In that exact moment, a man emerges from the bushes in front of them, waving hello. He’s very tall, with white hair, and he’s wearing a straw hat. John thinks he must be the gardener, judging by the tools he has with him and his clothing.

“Hey Dad!” Sherlock exclaims happily, and John is shocked by the normal appearing of Mr. Holmes, but also by the warmth with which Sherlock greets him.

“This is the friend I talked to you about, John. John my dad, Siger.”

John stands up and offers his hand to the man, “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Sherlock’s father doesn’t reply, he just smiles and shakes John’s hand.

“We’re very glad to have you here, John,” he says after a few moments, “You boys go on and have fun, I still have the east side of the garden to check. Bye-bye.”

He then starts humming “That’s amore” walking away.

“I… I didn’t expect you father to be like that,” John says after a few moments.

Sherlock chuckles, “No one does.”

 

oO°Oo

 

That evening Sherlock is playing with the food in his plate, lost in his thoughts. Irene continuously glances at him from his right, and he’s doing his best to ignore her. His parents (well, to be honest, just his _mother_ ) can’t seem to stop talking about John Watson, this “beautiful boy”, who “plays rugby” and has a “brilliant career in the military ahead”. Sherlock’s father nods every once in a while, adding an “absolutely” here and an “I agree” there. The Adlers smile broadly and look interested in the subject (who wouldn’t; Sherlock’s second friend ever, everybody do a happy dance). The only positive note in all of that awful business is Mycroft’s absence, who is currently climbing the ladder of success in the British Government.

Sherlock doesn’t utter a word, not even one, for the whole dinner. He’s too busy thinking about the beautiful afternoon he just spent, and if he’s worthy of a friend like John Watson. The answer is easy: no. No, of course he’s not, John is perfect. He is strong, and handsome and brave; he can fit in and be sociable, never being too dependent on others. He’s also truly interested in Sherlock’s experiments and ballet and he never treated Sherlock like he was weird, or some pitiful human being in need of being fixed.

And Sherlock? How could he, coward, arrogant, unlovable Sherlock, be worthy of John Watson?

One month. One month of knowing each other and John hasn’t already realised how undeserving of his friendship Sherlock is. How long till he came to his senses? Sherlock sighs heavily looking at his plate.

“Aunt Vivi, Sherlock and I are done with dinner. Can we go to Sherlock’s room?” Irene suddenly asks, startling Sherlock. He tries to say that no, he doesn’t want to go to his room with Irene, but she kicks him from under the table and he bites back his words. He  knows perfectly well his cousin can seriously hurt him; Sherlock will never forget when she whipped him with a riding crop during their first horse-riding lesson. And he only told her that it wasn’t a sport for women. That girl is dangerous.

Violet smiles and nods, flapping her hand towards the stairs with a “Off you go”.

Once Sherlock is in the bedroom, Irene closes the door and leans against it with her back, giving her cousin a devilish grin.

“So?” she asks, tilting her head.

“So what?” Sherlock retorts, throwing himself on the bed.

“You know what.” Irene approaches Sherlock and sits cross-legged on the mattress.

“What should I tell you about him that my parents haven’t already-”

“Wait, wait, what? About _him_? No Sherlock, I don’t care about John bloody Watson.”

Sherlock looks startled at his cousin, who is looking at him like he’s some sort of four-year-old kid who can’t do 2+2. Damn Irene.

“I wanted you to tell me about _her._ That girl, the brunette sat in front of you at lunch… Who is she?”

Sherlock will never cease to be amazed by his cousin. She changes girlfriends with the same frequency he changes his shirts.

“Her name’s Janine. She’s a friend of Mary’s, and forgive me for disappointing you, but I think she’s straight. Sorry Irene, but don’t you attend that school too? Have you never seen her?”

Irene scoffs, “Of course I did, it’s just… She…” Irene trails off, a hand in the air and dreamy eyes. Ugh, crushes are ridiculous, Sherlock thinks.

“Irene! Wake up!” Sherlock says, snapping his fingers in front of his cousin’s face.

“Shut up, you twat. Let’s just say that she grew a lot during this summer, she’s very different. I never really bothered to know her name, she wasn’t this pretty. Oh and by the way, a couple of years ago she had a crush on me. So, for once, your deductions are wrong, she’s not straight.” 

Sherlock sticks his tongue out at her, and Irene rolls her eyes, “Childish,” she comments.

“Tell me, did you deduce anything about her love life?” Irene asks.

“I had the impression she was looking for a relationship,” Sherlock answers, keeping his tone bored.

“Excellent. Now, I need your help,” Sherlock starts sweating. Helping Irene is never a pleasant experience. “You are friend with John now, and therefore Mary. Also, I noticed Janine kept looking at you. You must remind her of me,” now it’s Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes, “So, I was wondering, could you befriend her and then introduce us?”

“Why should I? You’re usually good at abducting your victims by yourself.”

Irene doesn’t reply, and Sherlock notices a splash of red on her pale cheeks.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, “you fancy her! Like, you really, _really_ do!”

Sherlock starts laughing and Irene pinches his arm so hard he yelps.

“Don’t tease me, Sherlock Holmes,” she says with an icy tone, “Just tell me: will you help me?”

Sherlock sighs and nods. Now that he’s John’s friend, everyone thinks he’s the master of socialization.

 

oO°Oo

 

A telephone rings, but its annoying sound remains unheard by the blond boy lying on the bed.

 

“ _Now when she’s told  she's gonna get it_

_I'm guessing that she'd rather just forget it_

_Clinging to not getting sentimental…”_

John mouths the words moving his foot, the volume so high he’s starting to feel his ears ache.

_“…And those dreams_

_Weren't as daft as they seem_

_Not as daft as they seem”_

 

John closes his eyes, smiling. He’s spent such a lovely afternoon with Sherlock.

_“Oh, Flow, where did you go?_

_Where did you go?_

_Where did you go, oh”_

 

John opens his eyes, jumping in a sitting position, a dull pain in his chest. He takes a deep breath, the bass solo screaming in his brain.

_“No, you're not coming back again”_

 

“Fuck,” he says, but he can’t hear his words. He shakes his iPod, he needs to change song, _now_.

He throws himself back inhaling deeply. _James_.

 _He_ is not coming back. Not again. God, John misses him so much. It’s not like he’s still in love with Sholto, but they broke up in a horrible way and John knows he will never get over it. Every time he thinks of him, he feels nauseous and he just wants to hide, bury himself alive, out of shame. Christ, he should get things right, but he can’t. He’s not brave as other people think. And James was such a good friend. John wishes things had gone better between them.

After their first kiss and Harry’s homicide, summer holidays had started, and John and Sholto didn’t see each other for the whole summer.

In September, John discovered from a teacher that James had moved. John was alone. He had lost his sister, his best friend and his mother, who closed herself in a bubble of silence.

Initially he was angry. No, not angry. Furious. John started to get into fights at school, and he became untreatable, both at home and at school.

With the years things began to get better, and John slowly accepted that the world wasn’t as nice and clean as in the movies. He still had trust issues and little control of his anger, but everything was falling into place. Now he had a purpose which moved him to do well in school and behave nicely to his classmate: the army, which he saw as an escape from his house and a mean to do something good in his bloody life. He couldn’t have saved his sister, but hell, he could fix that feeling of uselessness he felt every time his father beat his mother or she forgot to eat, or sleep. Moreover, he had learnt on the Internet that if you pass a hard selection, the army will pay your University fees. You’ll just owe them six years of your life.

So, when John was 16, he went to a summer camp with the army, hoping to raise his chances to get the goddamn Cadetship.

James Sholto hadn’t changed much in three years; same beautiful eyes and blond hair. He was just taller, so much taller than John and so, _so_ more beautiful than John remembered. Love struck them both, and they spent a month of burning passion and midnight secrets. No one knew  about them, and it pained John beyond imagination. It pained him so much he couldn’t bare it, so he just bottled up his frustration. Until (on the last night of the camp), John exploded in a thousand horrible words, to which even worse were screamed. John will never forget the stuff James told him, as well as what he told James. The discussion didn’t end well, and after that, John hadn’t heard from Sholto again. _No, he’s not coming back again._

After James, John was scared. James had been his first kiss, his first boyfriend, his first time. John had given him everything he had, always having the sensation that the other boy wasn’t doing the same. Now he was utterly terrified at the idea of falling in love again, because if there was a thing he had learnt through the years, it was this: nothing ever ends well. But then, _Mary_.

Mary was like a fresh balm. Not only she was visibly besotted (so he didn’t have to worry like with James), but she was also kind and caring and _simple_. There was no complication, nor with her, nor with their relationship. Mary was everything John should be content with. He was captain of the rugby team, she was the most popular girl in the school. Blond with blue eyes, they were the perfect couple, both physically and ‘socially’, so really, John should just stop that little voice in his head that whispers him he’s not truly in love with Mary. Sure, she helped him heal during a hard time, but is that enough to make you love a person? And is it right to stay with a person just because you think you owe them?

The new song is already playing his ears. When John finally hears what the singer is saying, he angrily pulls the headphones out of his ears and tosses the iPod on the floor. It’s not possible, not every song can be about James! He’s just thinking too much, he needs to be distracted. Yeah, what he needs is someone to talk to, _anyone_ , to just stop thinking. Oh, how he wishes Harry was still alive. He misses her like one misses a limb.

He checks his phone and sees a missed phone call from Mary. John should call her back, hear what she wants, talk a bit to his _girlfriend._ He doesn’t notice where his fingers brought him until he ears Sherlock’s voice in his ear. Just his low baritone is enough to make John feel better, and he smiles at the wall.

On the floor, the iPod keeps singing.

 

_“Turning slowly, looking back, see_

_No words can save this, you're broken and I'm pissed_

_Run along like I'm supposed to, be the man I ought to_

_Rock and Roll, sent us insane, I hope someday that we will meet again”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [Army](http://www.army.mod.uk/medical-services/29973.aspx) [stuff](http://www.army.mod.uk/training_education/25683.aspx)  
> 2\. The songs John listens to at the end are:  
> • [Fluorescent Adolescent](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUNb7N2VvdM) by the Arctic Monkeys (and yeah I know that bit about "oh flow" is thought to be referred to a woman in menopause but poetic licence, alright? also in my headcanon teen!john is a fan of the Arctic Monkeys so)  
> • [Goodbye Kiss](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvmllWfdVY8) by Kasabian (this song fits so well with the story I imagined for John and Sholto ashjkslsy).
> 
> I wonder who's still with me after this awfully long wait...  
> Aaanyway, thank you for your kudos/bookmarks, I'll never thank you enough!  
> Leave a comment to tell me what you think, I really love reading them!  
> My [tumblr](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/) is always open for questions and... everything, basically. Come say hi! 
> 
> I've already sent the next chapter to be beta'd, so it should come sooner this time :) 
> 
> Bye!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [Jamie](http://maps-with-stars.tumblr.com/) :)

The girl with mahogany hair is walking down the street, a bunch of books clutched tightly to her chest, her gaze fixed on the pavement in front of her.

She stops in front of a plain house, bringing up her hand to knock (the last time she visited, the doorbell was broken, she recalls.)

Two male voices inside the house start bickering, and the girl frowns at the door. A shuffle, a thump, and the door opens to reveal John Watson, shirtless and covered in sweat.

“Molly!” he exclaims surprised, a big and amazed smile on his face. He tugs at her blouse and drags her into a warm hug. Molly, even if blushing furiously because of John’s semi-naked state, hugs him with the same intensity.

“H-hi, John.”

“Oh God, it’s so good to see you again! Come in, come in,” John says, taking Molly’s hand and guiding her inside. Molly is starting to feel less nervous the more she walks inside the well known house, old memories of her childhood coming to her mind.

“Oh and sorry for the erm,” he gestures at his naked torso, “well, this.”

Molly chuckles, “I’ve seen a lot more of you, John Watson.”

John grins back at her, “Don’t bring back our most awkward childhood moments,” he playfully admonishes her, while offering her a seat at the kitchen table, “I’ll put something on as soon as I can, but first,” he says, sitting down in front Molly, “tell me, how is Uni?”

“Well, I’m certainly making some muscles,” she says, tapping with her finger on the heavy books she has dropped on the table.

“Yeah, I can see how,” John chuckles.

“Would you like something to drink?” he adds, and Molly nods with a bright smile, “Just some water.”

John gets up to take a glass, and Molly takes a look around. In a few months things haven’t changed at all, and she can pretend she never left for Uni. She breathes in the familiar smell that reminds her of afternoons spent playing at ‘cops and robbers’ with John and Mike. A look at a pink plate and she remembers the biscuits Mrs. Watson brought them while they studied upstairs, before Harry died that is. Mrs. Watson had never been quite the same ever since.

She snaps back to reality when John hands her a glass full of water, “Ta,” she says distractedly.

John smiles at her softly, sitting down again, “This place is full of memories, isn’t it?”

“John? Who was at the door?” a male voice asks.

Molly blinks at him confused, then the realization hits her like a train, “I-I didn’t know you broke up with Mary, I’m so, so sorry I’ve… erm, interrupted you,” she says, her cheeks incredibly red and her eyes open wide.

“What? No, no Molly it’s not-” John is saying, when a beautiful boy, shirtless and sweaty as well, enters the kitchen.

“It’s not what it seems,” John finishes, passing his hand through his soaked hair.

Molly looks sceptically at John. She is not stupid, and she knows John’s bisexual. So what would two shirtless, handsome and sweaty boys do alone in a house?

She turns her head again towards the boy, and she finds herself staring raptly at the boy’s slender torso, and a single drop of sweat that travels down it. .

She then looks up to get a better look at his face. She nearly faints. How can those cheekbones be real? And those eyes? Blimey, Molly could write a poem about those eyes. It’s a pity that John is dating him. Wait, she knows that face, especially that body. Where?

Noticing she must be staring, she clears her throat looking back at the table, “Sorry again John, I should have warned you I was coming. See you later maybe?” she asks quickly, gathering her books and standing up.

“No, wait! Let me do introductions,” John says, grabbing Molly’s arm.

“Molly, this is Sherlock, a _friend_ of mine,” he gives her a meaningful look, “he comes to school with me and my _girlfriend_ , Mary.”

Molly looks at John for a few moments, then her lips move to form an ‘oh’ of sudden realization.  She lowers her books back on the table, and John releases her arm.

Sherlock (or better, ‘grey eyes of sex’, as Molly has started to call him in her head) takes a few steps in the small kitchen, and sits down beside John.

“Sherlock, this is Molly, a very old friend of mine,” John finishes his introductions, and Molly and Sherlock shake hands, exchanging polite “Nice to meet you,” and “You too.”

“I think I have already seen you somewhere,” Sherlock says thoughtfully, staring pointedly at Molly, who is having a hard time breathing, under that attentive gaze.

“I got that impression too,” Molly says in a low voice, blushing furiously.

Sherlock keeps staring at her, and she tries as hard as she can not to look at him, just for the sake of her lungs.

“Ah! Got it,” the boy says smiling broadly, snapping his fingers in glee, “You come to all of my ballets!”

Molly doesn’t have a mirror in front of her, but she knows for sure that she’s never been redder. If there is one thing she does on a regular basis, well that’s blushing. And she knows that never in her life she has felt her cheeks burn so hot.

 _‘Greek statue guy’_! That’s where Molly’s seen him. Oh god, she should have never listened to Beth, she knew they were being obsessive! But Beth had a good point, the but-he-is-so-hot one.

Without all the make-up on, Molly had barely recognized him under the dim light of John’s kitchen.

“Y-yeah, now I remember too,” she says, hoping the floor could just open up and swallow her.

Sherlock nods proudly at himself, totally unaware of Molly’s discomfort.

“So, what were you two, ya know, doing before I arrived?” she asks, desperate to change the subject.

John and Sherlock look at each other for a second, then they both start laughing.

“We’re the worst, I forgot I was still half-naked” John says, “so rude,” he shakes his head smiling at the table.

“Forgive us Molly, we were just assembling a bed upstairs,” John explains, “We’re gonna put something on, be right back.”

They get up and disappear through the door, elbowing each other and giggling.

Molly stares at their backs in amazement. She really can’t remember the last time she’s seen John so… light-hearted. Another set of memories flashes through her mind.

She remembers when she and John laughed until they couldn’t breathe for a particularly hilarious fall of Mike’s, or that time she read to Mike and John her copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and John just couldn’t stop giggling.

She remembers when she and Mike went to John’s the day after Harry’s funeral, John trying not to cry in front of his friends, his lower lip trembling.

She remembers John telling her and Mike about James during a phone call from the army camp, his voice robotic due to the bad connection.

She remembers when John hugged her tightly, murmuring with a watery smile and a fake laugh, “Never fall in love Molls, that sucks.”

John had never been quite the same after Harry’s death and all that James issue. He never allowed himself to laugh mindlessly again. It was always like he was crushed by all his grief and sorrow.

Oh how different he had just looked! Completely free from that weight, he had laughed his heart out for something so silly like having forgotten to put a shirt on. For a moment, he had looked happy.

 

oO°Oo

 

(Sun 08:21pm)

_I think that that friend of yours has a crush on me._

Yeah, what a difficult deduction. John shakes his head at his phone, while he brushes his teeth.

(Sun 08:22pm)

Shut up.

 

(Sun 08:30pm)

Wow, I didn’t think it would work.

 

(Sun 08:32pm)

_Haha. Hilarious._

(Sun 08:33pm)

_I was merely helping my brother pack up._

(Sun 08:35pm)

YOU?! Helping your brother?? C’mon, tell me where the real sherlock is, you’re clearly a clone D:

 

(Sun 08:36pm)

_John, your sense of humour is crazy tonight._

 

(Sun 08:37pm)

I know, I’m a comedian at heart.

 

(Sun 08:38pm)

_I was helping my brother just because the sooner he packs up, the faster he gets out of this house._

 

(Sun 08:40pm)

Always so selfless.

 

(Sun 08:41pm)

_You know me._

 

John sits down on the couch beside his mother, smiling stupidly at his screen.

The day had not started in the best of ways. He had completely forgotten about the delivery of the new bed, so he overslept. When the bed arrived, the only person in the house to hear the doorbell was his mother, who just let the men in telling them to assemble it in the wrong room.

When John woke up he found a second bed in his parents’ bedroom. Great.

His mother didn’t answer his questions, obviously, too busy staring at the black tv screen.

John sighed and did the only thing that he could think of: he called Sherlock.

Together they disassembled the furniture and re-assembled it upstairs, in Harry’s old room. Then Molly had arrived and they all had a nice chat, with tea and biscuits. When Molly went away, he accompanied her at the door. She hugged him and whispered in his ear, “Don’t let go of that boy.” She then blushed and ran away, leaving John gaping behind her in astonishment . Later, when the bed was in its place, he and Sherlock had dinner together. For the whole day, Mrs. Watson didn’t move from the sofa.

John turns his head to his right to glance at his mother. She looks paler every day, and John feels so useless. He can’t help her. God knows he tried. God knows how hard he tries still. He looks at his lap with a gloomy face, feeling like he’s drowning, crashed by an invisible weight.

A weight that disappears when Sherlock is with him. And this scares the hell out of him.

Julia suddenly grabs her son’s hand and squeezes lightly, before letting go. John blinks at his empty hand and pushes back his tears.

 

oO°Oo

 

“Fuck off, Mycroft!”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I won’t accept such a language under this roof!”

“Then I’m going outside to yell at this fat asshole to FUCK OFF!”

“Sherlock, I think you’re exaggerating now. Mummy, could you give us a moment of privacy?”

Sherlock scoffs and crosses his arms, shooting daggers in his brother’s direction. Violet sighs, “Sure, I’m gonna wait for you downstairs,” she says while she leaves her younger son’s bedroom.

Mycroft closes the door and leans against it, looking at the ceiling before taking a few steps in Sherlock direction.

“Give me my phone back,” Sherlock hisses.

Mycroft passes a hand through his auburn hair, “I took it just so we could talk. You are always texting with that John Watson.”

Sherlock cheeks darken, but he manages to maintain his self-control while he answers, “He’s  more interesting than you.”

“Oh, is he?” Mycroft asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“What do you want?” Sherlock growls, clenching his fist.

“Brother mine, I’m merely concerned about your safety. I worry about you. Constantly.”

There is a shadow of pain in Mycroft’s eyes, so wrong on the ever composed man’s expression.

Sherlock swallows hard, and tries as hard as he can not to yell at his brother.

“Mycroft, Greg’s already told you that John is not a drug dealer, nor a bad influence, and-”

“Judging by your brand new vocabulary, I care to disagree.”

Sherlock screams in in exasperation, throwing his fist in the air, “What do you want?!”

“You know it.”

Sherlock shakes his head, “No, never.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, “C’mon Sherlock don’t be puerile.”

“No means no.”

“Sherlock I just want to meet him, that’s all. Then you and your boyf-”

“HE IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND!”

“Not yet,” Mycroft chirps with a sly smile.

“Shut up,” Sherlock says, turning his back to his brother.

“So, is it settled then?”

“No,” Sherlock stomps a foot to the ground, just to remark his point.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock can _feel_ his brother’s glare on the back of his head, and he smiles for this little victory, “Goodbye Mycroft, see if you can drown in the Thames on your way.”

“Oh poor me, you are the humorous brother, aren’t you?”

Then Mycroft sighs, puts Sherlock’s phone on his desk and finally ( _finally_ ) he leaves.

 

oO°Oo

 

“Hey, John!”

John is walking down the corridor of the school, heading to meet Sherlock so they can go to Chemistry together, when Sally Donovan calls his name, smiling at him.

“Hi Sally,” John replies politely, even if confused. He really hadn’t been a gentleman to her and her boyfriend the last they saw each other.

“So, how’re you doing?” she asks, always smiling.

“Fine, ta. You?” This exchange of formalities is starting to make John feel uneasy. What’s her purpose?

“Me too, thanks. Erm listen, I haven’t stopped by just to chat,” she says, and John would really like to answer, “You don’t say?”

“Mmh yeah, I guessed so. Tell me.”

“Okay,” Sally says, taking a deep breath, “I just wanted to explain why I behaved the way I did this summer, when Philip and I met you and the freak.”

John clenches his fists and glares at her.

“Hey woah, calm down. Man, if looks could kill I’d be dead by now,” Sally laughs humourlessly. John doesn’t reply. “Jeez, sorry, I’ll call him Sherlock, fine.”

John crosses his arms and nods, prompting her to speak. She lowers her gaze at her feet for a moment, and when she looks up, her expression is much more open, much more sincere than before.

“It’s just… At the beginning of the campus, I tried to befriend him. I liked him, because I too wanted a real corpse and such. But he… he was very aloof, always telling people rude things, and he did… _that thing_ to me too, ya know, when he tells you about your life, he must have done that to you too.”

John nods, “Yeah, he did.”

“Didn’t it bother you?” Sally asks, her brown eyes searching his.

“Not at all, no. I thought it was amazing,” John answers honestly.

Sally doesn’t seem surprised. She smiles up at John, “Yeah, me too.”

John furrows his brow, confused. She sighs and shakes her head, her curly hair moving all around her face, “Just… don’t trust him. You seem a good guy John. He’ll always let you down.”

“W-why would you say this?” John breathes, leaning towards the girl.

“Bad… _things_ happened during the campus. Everyone thought he was involved, so I stood up for him but he… he never denied anything. And I have this friend in the Royal Ballet who took a few courses with him and she told me some stuff that happened at school and some things he did and… I’ll tell you what John: one day he’ll cross the line.”

John is too stunned to reply and, to be honest, he wouldn’t even _know_ what to say after this.

Sally leaves without another word, smiling sadly at him and squeezing his arm, as if she’s trying to give him strength.

John resumes walking slowly, replaying in his mind Sally’s word. He realises with shock that he already trusts Sherlock blindly.  Ironic, _him_ , the guy with trust issues trusts the boy he just met with all his heart. He’ll have to talk to Sherlock about  this story.

 

oO°Oo

 

“This was a terrible idea,” Sherlock hisses, while he and John are waiting for their turn to order their coffees.

“Relax Sherlock, it’s not a double date or some shit.”

“Well, you ought to inform your friend Janine about this, she has already made indecent proposals.”

“Indecent propos- for god’s sake Sherlock, what century are you from again?” John chuckles, and Sherlock glares at him.

“What’s taking so long?” Janine asks, with a smile on her face, her eyes never leaving Sherlock.

“The queue is sooo slow,” John complains, gesturing to the five people in front of them.

“Well, Mary asked about you,” Janine continues, glancing briefly at John. When he hesitates she quickly adds, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep company to this gentleman.”

Sherlock looks at John with an expression of pure terror, trying to shout at him with his mind “please don’t leave me with this girl”, but John just shrugs and heads towards Mary, after having shot Sherlock an apologetic look.

“So…” Janine prompts, getting closer to Sherlock with a smug smile.

“I’m gay,” he blurts out, avoiding her eyes.

For a moment she remains silent, but then she just shrugs, “Started to suspect, yeah, not really a surprise.”

She smiles up at him, “No more flirting then?” she asks.

“I’m afraid so,” Sherlock finds easier talking to Janine now that she isn’t trying to jump at his throat.

“So… John told me you’re a dancer.”

Sherlock hums, nodding, “Ballet, since I was six.”

Janine whistles in admiration, “Woah, you must be fucking good at it then.”

Sherlock smiles, “Oh, yes. I’m brilliant at it.”

Janine huffs a laugh and shoulders him, “You’re also very modest.”

“Ah, you got me,” Sherlock brings a hand to his chest, mock pain written all over his face. They both giggle, advancing of just a few steps towards the cashier.

“What else do you do? Apart from perpetrating the gay stereotype, that is.”

“Oh shut up,” Sherlock answers with a smile, “You should know that I’m pretty good at fencing.”

“Gay,” Janine comments.

Sherlock snorts, “C’mon, what do _you_ like doing in your free time?”

“I’m an excellent swimmer, perhaps I’m better in my field than you are in yours.”

“Are you challenging me?” Sherlock asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Why, do you want to be challenged?” Janine retorts.

“Fine. Let’s meet at a swimming pool and see.”

“Oh, you’re a proud one. Which swimming pool?”

“Do you know the ‘Clissold Leisure Centre’?”

“’Course. When?”

“Next Saturday at 10am?”

“Marvellous,” Janine replies, narrowing her eyes and outstretching her hand. Sherlock shakes it and then they both turn to make the order.

Back at the table, while Janine invites John and Mary to assist at their “swimming challenge”, Sherlock subtly takes his phone out and messages his cousin.

 

(Tue 05:25pm)

_Saturday, Clissold swimming pool, 10am. Bring your best swimsuit. You have a date with Janine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!  
> As always, _thank you_ for your kudos/bookmarks!  
>  If you like, leave a comment either here or on my [tumblr](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> See ya! :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! 
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, because my current beta is very busy at the moment.  
> So, if you see any mistakes, please let me know in the comments, or write me on [tumblr](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/) and I'll fix them!

“Holmes?”

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t even look up from the papers scattered on her desk, she just waves her hand in front of herself. The bell has just rung, and all the students are impatiently rushing towards the door, eager to get to lunch.

Sherlock shoots a look at John, who shrugs, “See ya outside,” he says, slipping out the door.

Sherlock stops in front of the little woman, and only then she looks up.

“How dare you wasting my time for anything less than your best?” she asks. There isn’t anger in her voice, just disappointment, and Sherlock feels shame wash all over him.

She holds out to him his last test, on which a big red A- takes a great lot of the space.

“You can do better than this. I know it. Why did you purposefully fail some exercises? Shush, don’t try to say it’s not true, I ain’t an idiot young man.”

She then crosses her arms and leans back in the chair, staring expectantly up at Sherlock. He looks at a little spot of ink on her desk, trying to deduce how old it is, the brand of the ink, the-

“Look at me, Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson snaps, and he immediately meets her gaze, his eyes wide open. He wasn’t expecting that reaction from that kind old woman. Still, he can’t think of a single thing to say.

“I know you can talk. You and Watson seem to never stop chatting during my lessons.”

Sherlock blushes, and stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels.

Mrs. Hudson sighs, bringing her entwined hands in front of herself.

“I know that the reason why you are doing this is that you don’t want to be moved to Advanced Chemistry. I know it. Just… let’s make a deal,” she says softly, while Sherlock stares at her puzzled.

“Wh-what deal?” he asks.

“Oh Lord, he speaks!” she exclaims merrily, and smiles at him so kindly that Sherlock can’t do anything but smile weakly in response.

“If you promise me you’ll never purposefully write the wrong answer under an exercise, I’ll provide you with the material from Advanced Chemistry –also giving you more difficult tests, so you won’t be bored to death. This way, you won’t have to change class.”

“B-but why would you do this?” Sherlock asks, completely shocked.

“Because I can recognize a great mind when I see one, as well as a great friendship.” She looks at him, lifting her hand, “Deal?”

Sherlock stares at her, before shaking the offered hand with a nod.

“Deal,” he answers, “and… thank you,” he adds, smiling shyly and slipping out of the classroom.

John is leaning with his back against the lockers on the left of the door, and when Sherlock exits he turns and smiles broadly at him.

“What did she want?” he asks while they walk to the canteen.

“Just congratulate me on my mark in the last test,” Sherlock lies.

“I knew it!” John exclaims, “That bloody test was the most difficult shit! No one got more than a C.”

“You got a B, John,” Sherlock reminds him, knocking their shoulders together.

“Of course I did, you git, you passed me all the answers!”

They burst out laughing, as they enter the canteen.

The tables are already filled with people, but John’s mates have kept a seat for him. No, wait. For _both_ of them. What-? No one ever kept a seat for Sherlock Holmes. And as childish as it seems, Sherlock is actually touched by the simple gesture, which _normal_ people probably experience every day.

He doesn’t notice that he’s staring at the two empty chairs, and John must understand what he’s thinking, because he tugs at Sherlock’s sleeve, smiling warmly at him.

“C’mon,” he says, simply. There is no condescension, nor pity, nor amusement in his voice.

Sherlock lets John lead him to the table by his sleeve, and sits down beside him. John’s mates greet him politely, and he nods at them. They all resume talking, and he stares at John laughing at some joke, his fair eyelashes touching his round cheek. His blue eyes full of mirth. God, he’s beautiful.

Then John turns and looks at him. His smile falters, seeing Sherlock’s serious expression. But then he grins at him, squeezing sympathetically his wrist.

Sherlock wonders, not for the first time that day, what in heaven he has done to deserve that marvel that is John Watson.

 

oO°Oo

 

Two days later, Mary is finishing putting her pink lipstick on her thin lips, staring at herself in the mirror. When she’s done, she closes her mouth and then opens it again, producing a light ‘ _pop_ ’ sound.

She checks her phone. No calls or texts from John. She curses under her breath.

It’s her birthday, for heaven’s sake! Yes, they’re going to see each other that night, and yes, John knows she prefers face-to-face conversations but still… at least one bloody text!

At midnight David sent her a warm ‘Happy Birthday!’ followed by an alarming number of emoticons. Mary had smiled at the screen of her phone, and waited an hour or so awake in bed for John to do the same (perhaps avoiding the annoying yellow smiling faces). She could see he was online, but he was not talking to her.

Mary isn’t worried about John cheating on her, the man is just too honest to even think about it, but still. It annoys her to no end the amount of time that John spends with his new _pal_. She hates all those bloody knowing looks an in-jokes they share. Their sodding complicity. Their loathing loyalty. Christ, they’ve known each other for barely two months! Mary slams her hand on the wooden surface, making her boxes full of jewellery tremble and rattle. She blows out a calming breath, and slowly takes a golden earring.

After it’s in place, she checks her phone again.

On the screen, John’s name stands out. She beams at the letters, eagerly unlocking the mobile.

She clicks on the green square of Whatsapp and opens John’s chat, to see that he sent her a vocal message. She presses the ‘play’ symbol to listen to it and lowers the phone on the desk, starting to put on the other earring.

“ _Hey there, beautiful,_ ” John’s voice sounds warm and Mary can hear his smile in just those three words, “ _Ready for a birthday serenade?,_ ” he clears his throat, “ _HAPPY BIRTHDAAAAY TO YOUUUUU_ ” he starts singing out of tune, and Mary bursts out laughing.

“ _No, okay, that didn’t go as I planned,_ ” John continues, chuckling. Mary smiles down at her phone and shakes her head in affection.

Suddenly John’s tone changes, and he sounds sheepish as he delivers the next sentence, “ _Erm, about tonight honey, I’m afraid I’m gonna be a bit late,_ ” at that Mary furrows her brow, setting down the mascara she has just started to pass on her eyelashes.

“ _I’m so,_ so _sorry, I know how much you care about your party, and I know I’m the worst, today I wasn’t even at school, I had to help Sherlock with… a thing. But I’m gonna be there, I swear, with the best present ever just…_ ” he sighs, “ _Just not at 8:30. Is 10 alright? Call me when you get this. Miss you babe, see you later. Bye.”_

And just like this, the message comes to an end. Mary blinks at her phone, unsure of her next move.

She decides to keep putting on the mascara, trying to ignore the bubble of anger that is becoming so unbearable in her chest. John’s gonna notice she visualised his message, she should call him but seriously, she’s trying to get ready for a party. He shouldn’t expect her to do everything he asks her to.

Mary sighs. What the hell is she thinking? John is the sweetest guy she’s ever met. Yeah, he surely hasn’t the brightest family history behind him (she’d have to be blind not to spot the tell-tale signs of his emotional scars), but no boyfriend has ever treated her this kindly. John is just the epitome of a good person. And she really likes him. When they first started dating, she hoped (well, to be honest with herself, she still does) that this mutual attraction could blossom into something else. Love, perhaps? Maybe they’re just not meant to be. She shakes her head. It is no good to dwell on these thoughts. Not at 7pm of a Friday night. _Her_ bloody Friday night. She’s still got a lot to do. She takes the phone in her hands and fires a text at John.

 

(Fri 06:58pm)

Thanks for the serenade, really what I needed :D No problem for tonight, see ya later :*

 

(Fri 06:59pm)

ur present must be bloody brilliant tho.

 

Satisfied, Mary throws her mobile on her bed. No more distractions. She needs to be beautiful.

 

oO°Oo

 

“This is the last straw, I can feel it,” John says, frantically waving his hands in the air.

He’s lying on Sherlock’s bed, while the other boy is doing god-knows-what on his computer.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically as he continues to fiddle with a laptop. John can hear him break something with the screwdriver he’s holding.

John’s head snaps up and he settles his weight on his elbows, glaring at his friend.

“Ya know she’s gonna leave me, right? I’ll probably walk in on her snogging that bloody David-butt-face, and she’ll just blame it on the alcohol and tomorrow she’ll tell me she doesn’t want to carry on with our relationsh-”

“John, no one was pointing a gun at you when you sent that message. If you’re really this worried, you can leave now, no one is forcing you to stay against your will,” Sherlock spits out harshly, not bothering to look up from the golden microchips he’s inspecting.

John falls down on his back again and digs the heels of his hands in his eyes.He sighs, “I’m staying because I want to. I wanna help,” he finishes, propping himself on his elbows. Sherlock finally looks up, staring intently at his face, searching for something in his eyes. Some people find this habit of Sherlock’s quite creepy. He just stands there scrutinizing for several seconds, totally unaware that his attentive stare may be too intense. John doesn’t care though, and doesn’t lower his gaze. Finally, Sherlock seems to find what he was looking for On John’s features,  because he nods at himself and turns back on working on his microchips.

“Then start gathering your stuff, we’re leaving.”

And with this, he stands up, stuffs the metal objects in his hoodie pocket and disappears through the door.

“Oh, for God’s-” John mutters, jumping off the bed and running after the madman.

“Jacket, John!” Sherlock reminds him from the end of the corridor.

John stops dead and swears again. Then he stomps back to Sherlock’s bedroom, angrily muttering to himself. He yanks the door open and walks to the chair, snatching his jacket violently from the backrest, accidently causing a framed picture on a shelf to fall down.

He bends down and cradles it in his hands, his eyes closed, scared he’s broken the glass. He peers carefully at it and sighs with relief, opening his eyes to take a better look at the picture.

Two boys are standing next to each other, smiling brightly at the camera. John can easily recognize Sherlock’s features in the shorter boy’s face, even though he looks much younger than now. The other boy seems about Sherlock’s age in the picture. He has bronze skin, and he’s a good inch or two taller than Sherlock. He’s holding in his arms a medium-sized dog (a Bull Terrier? John is not sure), who is lapping his chin. John focuses his attention on Sherlock’s face, because he looks so young and beautiful and happy. Strangely, he regrets never having met this smiling, tiny version of Sherlock.

“That’s Victor.”

Sherlock’s voice startles John, and he turns guiltily towards the sound.

The boy is eyeing him attentively from the doorstep, slipping a black glove on his bare hand.

“Friend of yours?” John asks, to break the strange silence that just fell in the room.

Sherlock nods firmly. John hums, “You never mentioned him,” he states.

“I haven’t seen him in a while. We-” Sherlock stops abruptly, staring at John, his face a powerful mix of so many emotions that John can’t catalogue them.

“Never mind,” Sherlock says, turning again towards the door.

“Sherlock, wait!” John exclaims. He’s seen an openness in the other boy’s eyes he cannot ignore, and when they’ll be out that room he knows that Sherlock will build up his defences again. He can’t miss this chance.

Sherlock stops dead and turns to look at him. John takes a deep breath, “Tell me about him” he says quietly.

The taller boy shuffles his feet, staring at the ground.

“We were twelve when we took that picture,” he finally whispers, and John can barely make out the words.

“You won’t find hard to believe that I never had any friends, except for Mycroft and Irene,” he continues, “and, well… now you,” he smiles weakly. John nods, his lips curling up a bit, prompting him to continue. Sherlock sighs, “Victor was… Well, he was different,” he pauses.

“He was the son of the Indian ambassador, we met when his dog bit my ankle. He used to bring me a cupcake everyday since then, to apologize. He loved Philosophy, and was already studying difficult philosophers, like Kant or Hegel, in _German_ ,” Sherlock smiles fondly at the memory, shaking his head. John feels jealousy hitting him like a train in his chest.

“He was very bright, and my only friend. Stood up for me and everything.”

Sherlock pauses again, and this time it takes him a little longer to start talking again.

“That picture was taken in Norfolk, where I spent my summer holidays with him and his father. While I was there I… I noticed _things_ , about Mr. Trevor. I didn’t have the nerve to tell Victor about my suspicions, but one night a man arrived and forced Mr. Trevor to hire him as a butler and seeing Victor’s father’s distress I couldn’t… I couldn’t just _stand_ there saying nothing! Could I?” Sherlock asks rhetorically, staring at John in the eyes. He sighs again.

“I-I deduced Victor’s father was an escapee and the man he hired was blackmailing him. I…” Sherlock trails off, his breath caught in his throat, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to happen,” he whispers, his voice watery, and John feels pure and utter _dread_ running coldly up his spine. Because Sherlock Holmes doesn’t cry. Never. Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales deeply. He shakes his head, “He killed himself. Victor and I saw him throwing himself off a cliff nearby the house. He couldn’t deal with the shame, something like that.”

A clock somewhere ticks by, and John tries as hard as he can to focus on that one single sound, so that his face won’t betray any emotion, because he can see that Sherlock isn’t done.

“He.. He blamed it on me. Not out loud, obviously, Victor was just too kind for that but… He never talked to me again. I guess he’s right, I mean, if I had kept my stupid mouth shut-”

“Sherlock, stop,” John says sternly, taking two steps towards the man and placing a hand on his arm.

“Stop,” he repeats, when Sherlock stares down at him, his eyes lost.

“It’s not your fault that man took his life. And Victor surely knows it too, he just needed someone to blame, and you were the right person at the right time. Stop carrying the world on your shoulders. You ain’t a god Sherlock! Not everything happens because of you. Stop fustigating yourself,” he’s trying as hard as he can to be soothing, to put in his voice all that maelstrom of emotions he feels for the boy in front of him. Sherlock shakes his head, so John places both his hands on his shoulders, squeezing lightly.

“Hey, look at me,” he murmurs, and Sherlock does.

“It. Is. Not. Your. Fault.”

“Who are you to tell what is and what isn’t my fault?” Sherlock asks, lifting his chin in challenge. But the pain is gone from his eyes.

 _Here you are_ , John thinks with relief. Finally a side of Sherlock’s he can deal with.

“I’m John bloody Watson and I’m the best thing to happen to the sky since rainbows.”

Sherlock huffs out a laugh despite himself, and John smiles up at him, glad that the emotional moment is finally over. Sensitive topics are so not his area.

“I knew a bit of Douglas Richardson was what you needed,” he says, putting some distance between them and starting to slip in his jacket.

Sherlock tilts his head, “Douglas who?”

John gapes at him, his jacket forgotten half-way on his arms.

“Cabin Pressure!” he exclaims. Sherlock’s expression remains blank.

“Oh my god,” John breathes, shaking his head.

“Prepare yourself for a marathon,” he says with a nod, zipping his jacket closed.

Sherlock groans, “Another one?” he whines as he makes his way out of the room.

“Yup,” John replies, following the man through the enormous house.

“Where are you two going?” Violet calls from the kitchen as they pass in front of it, “I just made dinner!”

“Sorry mum, we’re just gonna grab some fish and chips on the way, we’d better dash!” Sherlock says, without halting his march towards the door. He snatches the car keys from their plate and exits the door in a swirl. No driver, then. _Shit,_ thinks John, _it’s a ‘secret mission’, then_. He’s genuinely scared now.

“Bye! Come along, John!” Sherlock yells, and John throws an apologetic look at Mrs. Holmes, who smiles warmly and waves him off.

John shuts the front door with a click, then he hurries to catch up with Sherlock, who is already talking about what they’re gonna do.

“-and then we’re just gonna give him the bloody microchips and it’s done,” he’s saying when John reaches him. He then proceeds to open the car door and literally jumping in. John takes a moment to be envious of Sherlock’s personal car, then follows him inside, falling on the passenger’s seat.

“Dunno if you noticed, but I missed the first half of this monologue, Sherlock,” John says, shutting the car door closed.

“You’re perfectly aware that I dislike repetition,” Sherlock replies, starting the engine.

“Well, then you’re gonna have to make an exception, or stop relying on me for tonight, since I don’t know what we’re supposed to do,” John retorts.

Sherlock ponders for a few seconds, then he sighs, “Only because I may need your help,” he says, waving his finger in front of John’s face. The blonde beams at him, “Go on then.”

“Jabez Wilson,” Sherlock begins, looking at John as if the name should ring a bell.

John shrugs, “He’s one year below us,” Sherlock explains.

John narrows his eyes, licking his lips. He never heard of a Jabez in his life. Is it even a name?

Sherlock sighs, “The little red head, the one who- oh never mind, it’s not the point,” he waves a hand in the air, “you’ll recognize him when you see him.”

“What about him though?” John presses on, for Sherlock seems to have forgotten they were talking.

“Oh, right,” the taller boy snaps out of his thoughts, “He is an enthusiastic technophile, and he’s currently building a computer of his own, don’t know why,” Sherlock seems to find this passion of Jabez both boring and confusing, and John chuckles at the man’s expressions.

Sherlock glares at him, “His family is Jewish,” he continues, “a few days ago they celebrated the Yom Kippur. As you maybe know, this is the holiest day in their culture. You know, I recently read an interesting article-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts him.

The boy nods, “Sorry I got lost. Long story short, people are not allowed to do many things in that day, including smoking. And guess what? Jabez’s parents caught him with a cigarette between his lips and a pretty girl on his arm. For this reason they grounded him and they also threw away his project.”

“Couldn’t you just tell me he was grounded?” John asks with a smile.

Sherlock scoffs, “Now you know a bit more about Jewish traditions.”

John laughs, and after a few moments, Sherlock low chuckle follows.

“What does this have to do with us?” John asks, his eyes enthralled by the movement of the other boy’s Adam’s apple. He hopes Sherlock doesn’t notice he’s staring.

“Well, he managed to retrieve some components of his handmade computer from the trash, but he still misses a few pieces. Pieces he has no means to gain in time to win his bet against his cousin,” Sherlock actually rolls his eyes at that, “He wants to win so badly that he’s willing to pay me 100£ if I can get him his last components by tonight.”

“A hund- hundred pounds?!” John’s voice is just an incredulous whisper.

Sherlock smirks, “Aye,” he says, in his pirate accent.

“B-but why do you need that money? And how is this related to that thing we have to do for Hector?” the blond asks. Hector’s case was the reason he’d agreed to stay with Sherlock and arrive late at Mary’s party.

A few days before, Hector McFarlane, one of John’s teammates, had been unfairly accused of having killed the dog of a teacher, Mrs. Robson, and now he was risking to be expelled. John knew that Hector wasn’t the type to do such a thing, and convinced Sherlock to investigate. The boy had immediately confirmed John’s suspicion, that someone had wanted to frame McFarlane. Sherlock and John had spent the entire day looking for proofs, even skipping school in order to investigate. However they were still far from discovering the real culprit.

“We need the money because I ran out of litmus paper and we need it. We’ll also need two big spades. Oh, maybe sanitary masks. For the smell,” he nodded to himself, caressing the wheel thoughtfully.

“WHAT?” John almost yells, startling Sherlock.

“The hell, Sherlock?” John is verging on hysteric. He lets out a sort of manic laugh and Sherlock looks at him as if he’s worried for _his_ mental health.

“Would you pl- FOR FUCK’S SAKE WATCH THE STREET!” he screams when they almost end up in a ditch.

John buries his face in his hands.

He’s having the time of his life. And this is not good. Like, he’s stuck in a car with Sherlock ‘I almost ended up in a ditch because I was too busy saying random stuff’ Holmes, going god knows where doing god knows what. And he’s _happy,_ he’s _calm_ , he’s never felt more _right_ with anyone else, and all because of that most marvellous, crazy best friend he ever hoped to find.

Suddenly, John is hit by his own words. Best friend. He called Sherlock his _best friend_ in his mind.

Two months. He’s known the bloke for two months. It feels like he has known him his whole life.

Cold dread settles in his stomach. No.

He swore to himself, after Sholto, that he’d never fall in love again. He had been careful with Sherlock; he was sure to hang out with Mary as often as he could, to keep in frequent contact with his friends and sometimes going out with them instead of Sherlock. And yet there he was, barely two months after their meeting, falling. And falling hard, harder than ever.

Sherlock had turned him down though, that very first day, _“John, I can’t say I’m not flattered by your interest, but you should know that I’m really not looking for any kind…”_

It was obvious he wasn’t interested.

Love is fucking miserable all over again. Why should he want to pine over someone who clearly doesn’t want him?  He’s pathetic, _pathetic_.

He burrows his face deeper in his hands, feeling the familiar pain in his throat of when he’s holding back his tears.

A warm hand settles on his shoulder.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is so tiny, so worried. John hates himself for being the cause of that fragility.

 _Get your shit together, boy_.

“D-did I scare you? I-I can assure you I’m a fine driver, and I’m sorry for not explaining my plan to help Hector, I just- I just thought that you had more fun when I tell you my plans after they’re well refined and I don’t have to explain them step by step, but if you want I can manage on my own, I-I mean, I can give you a lift to Mary’s party, if you- if you wanted to-”

John halts Sherlock rambles raising his hand.

“Stop. Sorry about…” he gestures vaguely with his hands, “ _that_ , I just…” he trails off, looking intently at one of Sherlock’s coat buttons. “I… got lost in my own head, nothing to do with you.”

 _Liar_ , Sherlock’s eyes seem to say. Or maybe it’s just John’s mind playing him tricks.

“I _want_ to help you, so no Mary’s party. And I _do_ prefer when you explain your finished solution. So, tell me why we couldn’t use our money to buy those things and drive more slowly,” he smiles, but it’s a weak attempt, and after long seconds, Sherlock wipes the sceptical frown off his face and starts talking. John sighs in relief.

“Mycroft. He keeps my money with him, gives me tewnty quid a week. I have to bring him all my receipts along with the eventual change I get. That’s why I have to find other ways to buy the things I need for my experiments and cases.”

Not for the first time, John thinks that the Holmes are hiding a secret. He’s about to make a comment about Mycroft’s lack of privacy, but Sherlock interrupts him, obviously willing to change subject as soon as possible. John lets him.

“When I questioned Hector, his body language was clear: he was innocent. Clearly, someone wanted him to take the blame, but who? And how could they take a picture of him leaving the scene with the same clothes he was wearing at the disco, if he swears he doesn’t even know where Mrs. Robson lives? Clearly, we are looking for two people.”

“Why two?” John asks, now that his crisis is over.

“One murdered the dog, the other took the picture.”

“Right.” John feels immensely stupid.

“So, I made a list of names of people who could either benefit from Hector’s expulsion, or wanted to harm Mrs. Robson, or both. All we have to do is finding proofs that link some these people to the crime scene.”

“But… how?” Sherlock smirks at John’s question, and the boy feels his stomach clench and his cheeks flush. He’s just thankful that the car is too dark to notice this last physiological response.

“Just you wait.”

 

oO°Oo

 

“Why, _why_ do I keep trusting your judgement,” John asks breathless, lying on his back on the sidewalk.

“Because I… I was… I was right,” Sherlock retorts, his breathing ragged and strained, his hands clasping his stomach.

“Are you alright?” John questions worriedly, watching Sherlock’s pained expression every time the boy inhales air with great difficulty.

“ Mmh, ‘m fine, perfectly fine,” he replies dismissively.

“Did you at least gained something from this mess?”

“ ‘Course. I know who did it.”

“Who?”

“Not… Not telling you yet. Must… surprise…” Sherlock gives up trying to speak and collapses on the pavement.

John’s head falls back against the cement, and then he starts laughing uncontrollably.

Sherlock had dragged him first to Jabez to get the money, then to a 24/7 open drug store, and finally to Mrs. Robson’s house. There they checked no one was in, found where the dog had been buried, and he and Sherlock had to _fucking exhume_ the corpse. The smell was barely kept at bay by the sanitary masks soaked in the mint ambient perfume Sherlock kept in his car.

Sherlock then proceeded to examine the dog’s corpse, the shape of the wounds and the blood pH (why, _why_ , wondered John). Whenever Sherlock found something, he squealed in delight, and John thought he was really going bananas, because he thought Sherlock’s glee adorable. They then examined the ‘crime scene’ with care, Sherlock checking every single bloody centimetre of grass. Suddenly, a yell startled them, and they had started to run, chased by Mr. Robson.

They ran and ran, the spades bouncing on their shoulders, the sanitary masks hanging from their necks.

Finally they lost Mr. Robson, and threw themselves on the sidewalk.

And now John is laughing, laughing so hard that tears start to roll off his eyes. Because he was supposed to be at Mary’s party half an hour ago, he’s covered in mud, and he smells of corpse and mint.

God, he’s never been happier in his life.

 

oO°Oo

 

Sherlock empties another paper cup (his fourth) of alcoholic-something and tosses it away angrily. He looks at all those idiots around him dancing and kissing and drinking and he finds the whole situation a horrific ordeal.

John ran looking for Mary as soon as they entered the girl’s house. When he found her, he profusely apologized for being late (“Sorry babe, needed a shower,” how dull). She took the present from his hands (earrings, banal) and kissed him sweetly before leading him upstairs in her room.

That, _one hour ago._

“Just the man I was looking for!” a female voice shouts from behind him, loud enough to be recognizable over the loud music.

“J’nine,” Sherlock slurs, cocking his head in her direction.

“Aww someone’s drunk!” she exclaims delighted, clasping her hands in front of herself.

Sherlock closes his eyes, “ ’m not.”

Janine laughs, and the boy narrows his eyes at her, only managing to lose his balance a little. She helps him up, “C’mon, stand still,” she says, amusement in her voice, “You’re my new G.B.F. after all.”

“Your new wha?” Sherlock asks, trying to focus Janette’s (wasn’t it Janine?) figure.

“Gay Best Friend,” Janine/Janette explains, and Sherlock, even if slowed down by the alcohol, deduces that the brunette is just as tipsy as he is. Okay, maybe he’s quite gone already, but still.

“It’s what every straight single girl needs,” she continues, “that, a cat and a potted cactus.”

“Yeah, with the ‘xception that you’re not straight, you’re allergic to cats and I’m not an object,” Sherlock says, remarking his point by counting on his fingers.

“What do you mean I’m not straight?” Janine (yes, Janine, Sherlock is sure) asks, suddenly serious.

“Oh, please it’s not like you try to hide your attraction to the female anatomy. You’re doing it right now,” Sherlock cocks his head towards a girl in miniskirt dancing in front of them.

Janine tears her eyes away from the dancing figure, looking at Sherlock intently.

Then she shrugs, “She’s got really nice legs, though.”

“Mmh, ‘suppose,” Sherlock slurs again, filling himself another cup.

“Fine, you ain’t an object, but can you make me happy for a second and tell me how I look in this dress?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and the movement sends a twinge to his head.

“Damn gurl, you look fab,” he says, snapping his fingers in front of himself and using a high pitched voice.

Janine starts laughing, and after a few seconds, Sherlock follows.

“Hey, Sherlock! Janine!” John’s voice has the power to make the laugh in Sherlock’s throat die. He doesn’t turn to look at his friend’s face. Because he perfectly knows what he’ll find: swollen lips, glossy eyes, flushed cheeks. He and Mary had sex. Fact made pretty obvious by John’s voice, an octave lower than usual, and a bit hoarse.

Sherlock empties his fifth paper cup and feels the liquid heating up his stomach.

And perhaps he jumps to this conclusion because he’s drunk, or maybe because tonight his thinking process has finally culminated in the world-shattering deduction. The worst Sherlock’s ever made. The signs are all there. He stills, painfully aware of every sound, every smell, every visual inputs in the room. Then he looks over at John and knows he’s right.

He is in love with John Watson, and damn, he can’t do anything to change that.

He shuts himself up in his Mind Palace, terrified,  tries to look for some sort of comfort; the new choreography he had to learn at ballet, the difference between cigar and cigarette ash, anything, _anything_ but John.

Who stands there, grinning like an idiot, talking with Janine about the swimming race of tomorrow and Sherlock hates him, hates him, _hates him_.

He hates Mary even more, when she drapes her arms around John’s body, the signs of John’s passion on her neck.

He hates the conversation, so boring and predictable and idiotic.

Sherlock nods at the right moments, hums when necessary, laughs when everybody else does.

But no one notices that inside, he feels like dying.

Mycroft’s words echo through his mind, “ _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_.”  And oh, how Sherlock knows it’s true! The pain is already eating him alive, how did that happen, how?

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbles to the people around him, and races to the bathroom.

He bends down in front of the toilet and empties his stomach, gagging for air, knuckles white where they grip the tile.

But the worst part is not that he is throwing up, kneeled on the cold floor and in terrible pain, both physical and emotional. Oh, no.

The worst part is that John is there with him, and he’s stroking his back, whispering, "Shh, it's alright, I’ve got you.”

And for the briefest of moments, Sherlock imagines to feel the ghost of a kiss on his soaked wet curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Victor Trevor is a character from [The Adventure of the Gloria Scott](http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Gloria_Scott) (I love Victor so much uwu)  
> 2\. Jabez Wilson is a character from [The Adventure of the Read-Headed League](http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Red-Headed_League)  
> 3\. Hector McFarlane is a character from [The Adventure of the Norwood Builder](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Norwood_Builder)
> 
> I put the links so you can read the plot if you haven't read these stories integrally (I suggest you to tho). 
> 
> Sorry for this awful delay! I was waiting for my beta to be less busy, but that didn't happen! 5k words as an apology ;)
> 
> Please leave a comment! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. MADE. A. MESS. 
> 
> I posted this chapter one week ago, but I don't know, I fucked up and I realized only today that it hadn't appeared?  
> I'm a mess, sorry. 
> 
> Anyway, unbeta'd, please, please, _please_ , point out any mistakes, either in the comments or on my [blog](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Enjoy!

The first thing Sherlock thinks when he wakes up, is that he is not in his bed. His headache is too strong for him to open his eyes and understand where the hell he is.

His phone beeps again, and Sherlock thinks that probably it was the phone that woke him up in the first place. Bloody object. Or maybe the muffled voices on his right are the reason of his abrupt awakening. He opens his eyes, and the light almost blinds him. Sherlock groans. He doesn’t remember feeling this bad since he used cocaine, and that was a  _drug_ , not alcohol. What in the name of sanity had Mary put in the bloody thing? Mary! The party! He doesn’t remember much after his humiliating show of the night before. He threw up and then… He may have sung… Oh,  _god_. He doesn’t remember going home though, so that probably means he’s still at Mary’s. On her bloody couch, if the pain in his back is of any indication. And where is John?  _John_. Better not think about him for now.

He outstretches his hand and takes the phone. Why did he even set up an alarm? He tries to put together the letters on the screen, but they are too bloody luminous. Sherlock blinks a few times, groaning in annoyance. Finally the letters start to make sense. He groans again, throwing his head on the pillow. ‘Pool with Janine’, that’s all there is on the screen of his phone. Well, he has an hangover, and he left his swimsuit at home, so evidently they’ll have to skip the stupid ordeal. Oh, shit! Did he advise his parents he was staying at Mary’s overnight? He checks his phone again. No texts nor calls. Weird.

“I called your parents,” a voice from above him says.

“Are you spying on me?” Sherlock spits out, burying himself under the blanket. He’s not ready to face John yet.

John chuckles, “Well, good morning to you too, sunshine,” he chirps, and Sherlock jerks his hand out from under the cover to flip him off.

He hears John laughing and he huffs, burrowing even more under the blanket. He’ll never get out. Just they try.

“WAKEY WAKEEEEEY!”

A sudden weight settles on Sherlock, forcing all the air out of his lungs. Did someone just  _fucking_ jump on him? Sherlock regrets every decision in his life that brought him in this situation. Still fully clothed, sleeping on the couch of his best friend’s girlfriend, smelling of alcohol and puke, with a terrible headache and  _with a girl sitting on him_. This must be a nightmare.

“C’mon Sherly, out of your nest, lil’ bird! We have a race!”

“Get off me, Janine” he says through gritted teeth.

“Sherly?” John asks, amused.

“I hate everything, leave me here forever,” he says, causing them to laugh. Why.  _Why_ are they laughing. Is this a joke. No.

A hand settles on his shoulder, and the weight on his torso disappears. He hears Janine walking away, but the hand doesn’t leave.

“Sherlock,” John says softly, and Sherlock could  _die_  because John’s voice is so tender, “I made you pancakes,” he continues, and Sherlock forgets he should be angry and annoyed.

He sits up on the couch, facing John, “Thanks,” he mutters, taking the plate John is offering him.

John beams at him and Sherlock’s stomach decides to shut down, making it impossible for him to eat.

Reluctantly, he tears his eyes away from John’s beautiful face.

“I don’t have a swimsuit here with me,” he says, looking at Janine, who is eating pancakes with Mary at the kitchen counter.

She shrugs, “You can use one of John’s, he always brings more than one.”

Sherlock looks at John, arching an eyebrow.

“I...” John trails off, blushing.

Janine rolls her eyes, “Once John tore his swimsuit while he was diving, so the teacher forced him to swim with his underwear. He’s still traumatized.” John blushes even more and stands up, “I’ll go… I’ll bring you one,” he stammers out, before flying up the stairs. Mary and Janine giggle as they watch him go.

Sherlock, whose brain is finally starting to  _work_ , deduces that John probably went home to take his swimming bag and then came back to make breakfast for everyone. Why didn’t he wake him up? Sherlock could have gone home to fetch his stuff as well.

“Do you have any coffee?” he asks, his voice hoarse. He needs caffeine. 

Janine hums around her glass of orange juice, and Mary pours some freshly made coffee in a mug with Snoopy on it.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and she smiles at him.

 

oO°Oo

 

“Oh, that is  _so_ not fair!” Sherlock bites out, as he tries not to drown under Janine’s surprisingly strong arms.

“We said nothing about not drowning each other,” she exclaims jovially, “I win again!”

Sherlock glares at her, “No you don’t, you  _cheated_ , and that is not winning.”  
“Did I touch the tile first? Yes? Then I won,” she says, nodding at herself while she climbs the ladder to exit the pool. Sherlock hopes she falls. That would surely wipe her smug smile off her face.

When he’s out of the water as well, she grips his arm and pecks him on the cheek.

“Oh don’t be so grumpy!” she exclaims, watching him with an amused look.

Sherlock ignores her and dives headfirst in the pool.

“Who is cheating now?” she calls after him, as he swims as fast as he can to the other side of the pool.

He likes Janine. Seriously. But he just needs some time alone, after the revelation of the night before.

He had always thought that crushes were ridiculous, love just a dangerous disadvantage.

In the past, every time he felt attraction towards a boy, he was always able to suppress it. And honestly, it wasn’t as though he was friend with the objects of his attraction, so there wasn’t any real danger.

No one ever wanted him, and the few who dared to ask him out, were harshly turned down, scaring off any other potential date. And Sherlock is fine with it, really. The truth is that relationships scare him, if he has to be honest with himself. He is scared to let someone that close, because in the end, everybody leaves.

The only two people he ever opened his heart to, Mycroft and Victor, both left him or let him down. Not to speak about Jim, who just used him and basically ruined his life. Because now, no matter how careful Sherlock is, the risk of a relapse is high. He’ll always be an addict. It will never go away.

Sherlock holds his breath and dives under water, keeping his eyes closed.

John is different. John is a petite mix of contradictions, a lovely chaos of adrenaline, compassion and courage. He’s utterly perfect, and Sherlock is in love with him. There is no denying it, and it startles Sherlock that he needed so much time to understand it. The only thing that Sherlock can do now, is to hide his feelings.

John could never feel the same, anyway. And if he was to find out, that would probably end their friendship and honestly, that is the  _only_  good thing in Sherlock’s life at the moment. He can’t lose that, and he’ll do anything to prevent it.

And even if John felt the same, for some unfathomable reason unknown to Sherlock, that would be just as bad. Sherlock has never had a relationship, and he  _knows_  he would screw everything up in a handful of days.

He resurfaces, much calmer now that he’s made up his mind, and he inhales through his nose. He checks his dive watch. Irene should be here already, where the hell is she?

“You okay mate?” John asks from behind him, and Sherlock’s head whirls so fast around that he feels a warm pain in his neck.

John chuckles, raising his hands in front of himself, “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“You didn’t  _scare_  me,” Sherlock mutters, “just surprised me. You know, sneaking behind people’s backs is not good.”

John laughs, and Sherlock feels the corners of his mouth curl up in an involuntary smile.

Mary swims towards them, hugging John’s waist and placing a kiss on his neck. Sherlock’s chest does something strange, and he decides to ignore it.

Mary whispers something in John’s ear, and he blushes, before chuckling.

“Hey, guess who won the race!” Janine exclaims happily, slowly swimming towards them.

“Who?” Mary asks, a wide grin on her face.

“ME!” Janine yells, splashing water all around.

Everybody laugh, amused by Janine’s giddiness.

“Why don’t you also tell them you cheated?” Sherlock grumbles, though he’s smiling. He almost hopes Irene manages to conquer the girl’s heart, so that he’ll have her around the house for a while.

“Oh shut up, you twit!” she splashes him again, and he gasps. Seeing his outraged expression, Janine can’t help but laugh her heart out, wiping fake tears from her eyes.

“Sherlock!” a voice from outside the pool calls, and the boy smirks.  _The show begins_ , he thinks.

“Irene?” he says, feigning incredulity and turning towards his cousin.  She is wearing a beautiful one piece swimsuit that perfectly matches her eyes. It is light blue and envelopes her figure flawlessly. She is stunning, as usual. A few boys gape behind her back as they pass, staring at her long legs and perfect shape.

Sherlock glances briefly at Janine, and he can’t help but smirk when he sees her staring at Irene with her mouth open wide.

“Why don’t you come inside?” Sherlock asks, and Irene shakes her head, as they previously rehearsed, in Sherlock’s bedroom. Irene is a bloody perfectionist.

“Sorry cousin, I wanted to go to the sauna. Now that I think about it, today we members can bring a plus one. Would you like to come with me?” she wears her most seductive smile, and Sherlock hears Janine gasp beside him. He has to bite his lip not to laugh and ruin everything.

“Sorry, still have a hangover. Why don’t you bring Mary, or John?”

Irene purses her lips, “I guess they’d want to spend some time together, don’t you lovebirds?”

She doesn’t wait for them to answer, “You,” she says, and her voice is as smooth as silk, as she smiles predatory, “Janine, is it? Why don’t you come with me?”

Sherlock watches in amusement as Janine comically points at herself, turning her head around to check if she heard right.

“I… I don’t know if the others…” she babbles, but Mary shoves her to the poolside.

“Just go! We’ll be fine,” she says as she laughs, and Sherlock finds himself giggling as well, while John ogles the scene in confusion.

The three of them carefully watch as Irene helps Janine get out of the pool, a cheeky smirk on her red lips. Janine blushes hard under Irene’s gaze, who takes her arm and drags the brunette away.

“I don’t understand,” John comments.

“Oh, honey, you should have that on a t-shirt,” Mary chuckles, and Sherlock joins her, “It’s obvious, John!”

The blond scowls at the two of them, who are now howling with laughter.

“I still don’t understand,” he grumbles.

“And that’s the back of the t-shirt,” Sherlock says, and Mary laughs even more.

John’s eyes suddenly widen. “Y-you mean… No…  _Irene Adler_ and… and  _Janine_?” he asks.

“Yes dear,” Mary chirps, and John’s jaw drops open.

“Nooo” he exclaims, and they all dissolve into laughter.

 

oO°Oo

 

“Do you think Irene and Janine hooked up?” John asks as he rubs his wet hair with a towel.

“Most certainly,” Sherlock answers, finishing to wash the soap out his hair.

“Unbelievable,” John mutters under his breath, and Sherlock chuckles again.

“I guess I won’t have to give Janine a ride home then,” John says with a smirk. Sherlock smiles back at him, “I’m sure you won’t have to.”

He turns the taps of the shower off and John throws the towel at him. Sherlock catches it and starts rubbing his hair as well.

“You don’t have lice, have you?” he asks playfully. Oh, no. What did he have in mind?  _What the hell is wrong with him_. You can’t make jokes like that, Sherlock Holmes. You’re nothing but a little frea- “And you ask me that  _after_  you wore my swimsuit, you tosser,” John grins, and Sherlock smiles back.  _Any_  other person would have felt put out by his inappropriate joke, but not John. For Sherlock, being with John is as easy as breathing. John doesn’t expect him to be anyone but himself, and Sherlock feels truly free when they’re together. What a mess.

“Hey Sherlock,” John snaps him out of his thoughts, “are these shoes yours? They were beside your locker.”

Intrigued, Sherlock approaches John and takes the pair of shoes in his hands, examining them carefully. Suddenly, he freezes.

 _Shit_.

He feels like throwing up again. No. No no no no.

“Sherlock, are… Are you alright?” John sounds worried, but his voice is far, as though Sherlock is a thousand miles away.

On the inside of one shoe, written in blue felt tip pen, there’s written a simple string of letters.

_mei?sjsimm_

It’s not hard for Sherlock to rearrange them. It’s a simple letter code, in the end. So simple it would almost be insulting, if only Sherlock weren’t so scared.

“Yes, John, I’m… I’m fine. It’s just my head, still aches, I should go home” he attempts to smile, and he can see that John doesn’t believe a word he says.

 _Please, just let me go home_ , Sherlock implores with his eyes.

John sighs, “As soon as you get dressed I’ll give ya a ride,” he says eventually, rubbing his forehead.

Sherlock nods and dresses up in automatic.

Just as they are about to exit the changing rooms, John’s hand grips his forearm, forcing him to turn.

“If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?” he asks quietly, his blue eyes earnest and sincere.

“Yes,” Sherlock croaks out, but he mustn’t sound convincing, because John looks disappointed. Sherlock feels nausea building up inside of him.

“Just so you know… I trust you and you can always count on me,” John mutters to the ground between them, then walks away.

Sherlock covers his face with one hand, and tries as hard as he can not to think about the words written on the shoes he is holding.

 

_Miss me? Jim_

oO°Oo

 

John watches Sherlock run into his house, and again he feels like there’s something wrong. Since he showed Sherlock the shoes, the brunette has started to behave strangely – well, more than usual anyway. John starts the engine, chewing on his lower lip.

He thinks about Mrs. Holmes questions, Sherlock’s overbearing brother and Greg. John  _knows_  something’s wrong, he just can’t understand  _what_. He grunts in irritation. If only he had the ability to connect the dots like Sherlock does, he’d surel-

“John.”

He turns to his left, remembering just then that Mary is in the car with him. He hums to let her know he’s acknowledging her presence, prompting her to say whatever she has to say.

She sighs, lowering her gaze to her lap.

“We need to talk,” she says, her tone serious and her voice low.

 _Oh, shit_. John has had his fair share of relationships for his age. Enough to know that  _those_  words, when spoken  _that_ way, well, they never mean anything good.

“About what?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

“Us.”

John takes a deep breath, “I’m listening.”

Mary’s hands are restless, and her eyes still avoids his. John looks on at the street, feeling his stomach clenching and twisting.

“This summer, remember when I went out with Molly? In July?” she finally says, and John nods, not knowing where this is leading.

“Please don’t blame her, it’s just... we just got together and I wanted to know a bit more about your past relationships and she was a little drunk and…” she trails off, then turns her head look at John in the eye.

“She told me about James.”

John almost pushes the brake pedal to stop the car, get out, and run away. He winces visibly, and Mary sighs again.

“Listen, I don’t care, whether you’re bi, pan, you could even be gay for all I car-”

“Gay? How can I be- was I gay yesterday night too? Seriously, Mary, just because I’ve been with a guy, it doesn’t mean-”

“Shut up.” Mary sounds angry now. John inhales through his nostrils and keeps looking at the asphalt in front of him.

“What I meant was… I’ve had a fantastic time with you. So I wouldn’t mind even if you pretended all this months, which I don’t think-” John glares at her, “I  _know_  you didn't. I was just exaggerating to make you understand better… that I have no regrets.”

“Mary… what are you trying to tell me?” John asks softly.

They are in front of her house now. He turns his whole body towards her and takes her hands in his.

She inhales deeply and lets out a shuddering breath.

“I’m glad I helped you feel better, after your ex. No, shut up, I do the speaking now,” she holds her hand up and John closes his mouth, watching their entwined hands.

“I’ve had a James too, ya know?”

John’s head snaps up quickly, and he sees Mary smiling at him.

“Well, not quite. We were never together. I just pined for him for a long time, while he kept using me to make his ex-girlfriends jealous or when he needed a date for a party. I was his doormat, and I was too besotted to realise it. Then he moved, and I never heard from him again. I was heartbroken. But suddenly I was introduced to you, at that awful party, remember?” They both huff a small laugh as they remember that first night. The music was lame, the drinks disgusting and the house too little to host all the people that were squeezed inside. But then Janine had taken John’s arm and dragged him out in the garden, claiming she needed fresh air or she would have killed herself. Mary was out too, and Janine introduced them to each other, grinning knowingly. He knew Mary from school, and that she and Janine were friends, but he’d never really talked to her. Janine suspiciously disappeared as soon as they shook hands, but they didn’t really mind. They spent the whole evening together, talking, laughing, drinking, and by the end of the night, making out quite enthusiastically.

“I thought… ‘This is my chance to move on’. ‘This is my chance to fall in love with a good guy’. I-”

Mary’s voice breaks down, and tears start rolling down her cheeks. John raises his hands to Mary’s face, wiping her tears away with his thumbs.

“I like you, John. A lot. Don’t misunderstand me, I won’t deny I’ve had a terrible crush on you since I met you but… I care about you too much to carry on with our relationship.”

John’s hands stop caressing her face, “What do you mean?” he breathes. He takes her hands in his again.

“I didn’t fall in love John, but you did. Just not with me.”

John freezes. He opens his mouth to say something but he doesn’t know  _what_  and closes it again. He does this a few times, literally  _gaping_ at her like an idiot. “W-what?” he finally whispers, because anything else requires too much elaboration.

“You’d understand if you saw the way you look at him,” she smiles up at him sadly.

John doesn’t even want to  _think_  about the implications of what she’s saying because he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. He shuts his eyes closed, gripping on her hands so tightly she hisses in pain. He releases them and she takes his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.

“Listen to me very carefully John Watson. Since that madman came in to your life, you’ve like… changed. You brightened, yup, that’s the word I was looking for. I’ve never seen you so  _happy_  John. So  _alive_. And that’s okay, that’s why I’m doing this long speech… I knew that if I asked you to break up because I was aware of what you felt for him, you would oppose and make such a fuss. I want you to know, that to me, it’s  _fine_. Platonically speaking, I love you so much it’s ridiculous. And I want you to be happy. And as your girlfriend, I cannot accomplish that.”

“That’s just absurd!” John seems to have regained his ability to speak, “What the hell are you talking about?  _Who_ are you talking about, I bet not Sherlock, because if you are, you’re really doing a big mistake, unless you want to break up with me anyw-”

“John,” Mary interrupts him, slightly shaking her head.

“When we go out to eat all together, you always order something you know  _he_ likes so that he can eat from your plate, because he’s too stubborn to order his own. When he enters the room, your whole body shifts and you literally orbit around him, I’m not even joking. You’re always thinking about him first. For example, we go to the cinema and you’re like,  ‘I bet Sherlock would hate this movie’. Or I invite you over at my house when my parents are not in and you tell me that maybe Sherlock needs you with a thing. Seriously, you’d go wherever he goes, just to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed. John, do you even  _realise_  that if he is in the room, you literally forget anybody else, right?”

John shuts his eyes again. He can’t be in love with Sherlock Holmes,  _he can’t_. What good will that bring, how could this end, why does he always make such a mess, his father’s right, what the hell is  _wrong_ with him-

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out and  _fucking hell_ , he’s crying. “I didn’t want… I didn’t choose…”

Mary presses her finger on his lips, looking at him softly.

“Don’t be sorry. Like I said before, I have no regrets, I swear. I know you’re afraid John. Love  _is_  scary. But I hope that our time together taught you something. You cannot choose who you fall in love with. So please, stop trying to fall in love with me.”

She doesn’t give him the time to reply, kissing his cheek and flying out the car, disappearing in her house.

John’s hands are trembling, and it passes a while before he can start the engine and drive home.

 

oO°Oo

 

As soon as Sherlock enters his room, he throws himself on the bed, letting the tears he’s been holding back since he found the shoes fall freely.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, and sends his brother and Lestrade one simple text. Then, even if it’s only three in the afternoon, he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift off to sleep.

 

(Sat 15:12pm)

_He’s back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter ready for a while (since about two days after posting chapter 8) but I have waited till now to post this because I don't know when the next will be up :)
> 
> Thank you for leaving kudos/bookmarking or just reading! You make my day :)  
> And even though I'm pants at answering them, please leave a comment! I really love reading them 
> 
> See you next time!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM DONE WITH HIGH SCHOOL FOR FUCKING EVER!  
> That's why this update took so long, I was studying like crazy, and I managed to get out of that hell hole with a pretty high grade, so I can't really complain about not having time to write.
> 
> The last scene of this chapter is the scene from which the whole plot developed, the first scene I thought about, when I saw the [fanart](http://milfiepumpkin.tumblr.com/post/87486840013/come-here-john) I linked you in the notes of the first chapter. So basically this chapter it's when it all began. 
> 
> As always, all mistakes are mine, so no fear on pointing them out.
> 
>  
> 
> **TW for homophobic slurs and panic attacks.**

Sherlock loves John’s room. It’s little but cosy, and everything it contains is so much _John_ that Sherlock can’t help but love it immensely.

Five days after Jim’s message in the shoes, and after much fussing from Mycroft and Greg, Sherlock has finally managed to spend an afternoon with John. He knows there’s no need to worry, Jim only wanted to scare him. He’d leave Sherlock alone for the time being. If only Mycroft and Greg understood it.

After finding Sherlock still asleep on his bed that night, Greg immediately understood something was wrong. He pressed and pressed until Sherlock showed him the shoes. He froze then, and immediately called Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock’s protests. Mycroft took the first train from Cambridge and arrived immediatly after dinner. Then, Sherlock was forced to endure a ‘talk’ with his parents, Greg and Mycroft. The four of them agreed that Jim’s message was some sort of obscure threat and that Sherlock was in danger and blah blah blah. Sherlock had them on mute for most of the time.

They were just being melodramatic. The message inside the shoes was elementary, so much so that initially Sherlock had thought Moriarty was just trying to insult his intelligence. But then he started to suspect that the simplicity of the code might be a clue. Perhaps, he should focus on the shoes, rather than on Moriarty. He suggested his idea, starting off by saying that since that Summer day when Moriarty had come over, the boy had never bothered him again. His mother pointed out that, a few days after that visit, Sherlock had to change number to prevent Jim from calling and texting every day. Sherlock scoffed, repeating for the umpteenth time that Jim would have stopped eventually, but everyone shot dark looks at him.

It was passed midnight when Mycroft went back to Cambridge, and after calling his parents, Greg stayed over. Sherlock’s parents didn’t let him out of the house for days, terrified that this Jim Moriarty, might hurt him in some mysterious way. He just played the violin and refused t eat for five days, some sort of protest to convince his parents to let him out of the house and let him see John, who seemed to be more than motivated to find out what was wrong with him. In his days of confinement, Sherlock only received a Snapchat form Irene and Janine eating an ice-cream together, tons of texts from Greg updating him about the schoolwork and asking him of Moriarty, a couple of phone calls from Mycroft, both ignored. John asked him where the hell he was on Monday, when Sherlock didn’t show up at school, and he just answered, “Ask Greg”. After that, John was relentless. He asked, and asked, and asked, what the _hell_ was going on. He threatened to come to Sherlock’s house and “knock on the bloody door until you let me in, fucker”.

Then, an almost rational text.

 

(Wed 2:57pm)

Can u come over my house tomorrow?

 

Sherlock’s parents stopped fussing, after five days with no news from Jim’s front, and that is how now Sherlock finds himself on John’s narrow, comfortable bed. He rolls on his belly on the mattress, breathing in John’s smell on the pillow as he does.

He has just finished telling John everything about Jim, and John is fuming, pacing restlessly. Well, Sherlock didn’t tell him exactly _everything_ , just that Moriarty is a creeper who has this unmotivated obsession with him. John needn’t know about the drugs. Not now, not ever. But John had wanted to know, after five days of Sherlock acting weirdly, avoiding him every afternoons. And now John is furious.

“Let me get this clear,” he says, gritting his teeth.

“This guy in your old school harassed you at the point you had to change school. He came to your house, called you countless times, sent you so many you texts that you had to change phone number. And now this wanker leaves you a pair of shoes in your locker with a weird ass code. This is called stalking, Sherlock. We need to go to the police.”

Sherlock sighs, shaking his head. “And tell them what? ‘Oh, I found a pair of shoes with a string of numbers inside them, I bet my ex-classmate who hasn’t bothered me in months has sent them’.”

John opens his mouth to reply, but then he nods, as if he’s acknowledging the truth of Sherlock’s point. Eventually he pinches the bridge of his nose, snorting.  

“Now I bloody understand about that Greg fellow and why your brother’s always spying on you,” John hisses at last. Sherlock sighs, turning his head towards his friend.

“How do we get this bastard?” John’s eyes are on fire, and Sherlock’s heart beats faster. He’s so goddam beautiful. How can all that passion, all that rage, all that immensity be contained in that compact body?

Sherlock’s throat is dry, “We’ll just have to wait till he makes a false move and understand why he wrote his message in those shoes,” he finally chokes out.

John crosses his arms, setting his jaw. He’s angry. Very angry.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock breathes.

“What?” John snips, without even looking at him.

“Why are you mad? I mean, all this… _matter_ with-with Jim… why would it affect _you_?” he questions.

This time John does look at him. The muscles of his jaw tighten even more, as though he’s trying not to say something. His eyes are not longer angry, but sad, immensely sad. Then, it’s all gone.

John rubs his hand on his face. When he looks up, he’s expressionless.

In that precise moment, John’s phone starts ringing. The boy fishes it out of his pocket, reading the screen.

“It’s, ah, it’s Mary,” he says, sounding exhausted, “Sorry,” he apologizes, and exits the room.

Sherlock huffs, burying his face in the pillow. Bad idea. John’s shampoo is all he can smell, and his stomach clenches. _Relax, Sherlock_ , he tells himself, _you’re perfectly aware that olfactory inputs trigger the areas of the brain involved in memory. The olfactory bulb has intimate access to the amygdala, which processes emotion, and the hippocampus, which is responsible for associative learning. It’s simple biochemistry. Stimulus and response. Just get used to it, Sherlock. It’s not that bad._

It’s actually rather soothing listening to John’s voice in the hallway, muffled by the walls. He cannot make out what he saying, but to be honest, that’s better. He doesn’t want to hear him talking to Mary.

Sherlock starts playing a melody in his mind, creating a choreography for it. He’s so immersed in his job, that he doesn’t notice John is in the room again until he flops down on the bed beside him. Sherlock opens his eyes, turning his head to look at John. The boy is laying on his side, one arm bent under his head, and he’s smiling warmly at Sherlock, “Where did you go?” he asks, his voice tender and yet amused.

Sherlock has already told John everything about his Mind Palace. Well, _almost_ everything. He told him what it is, its purpose, he actually _drew_ some of his favourites rooms for John. He didn’t tell him there is a whole wing dedicated to him, though.

“Music room, I was rehearsing.”

“What, violin or ballet?”

“Both, actually.”

John chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Sherlock feels his chest tighten around his lungs.

“Were you also composing or just playing a piece?”

There is no mockery in his words, just sincere curiosity. Sherlock loves how John is never mocking, how accepting he is of his abilities, when other people have never really understood.

“Playing – Bach’s Partita in D minor for solo violin, fifth movement. Commonly known as ‘Chaconne’, or ‘Ciaccona’.”

John snuggles closer to Sherlock, “Is it nice?”

Sherlock nods, unable to answer now that John has come closer to him, and his breath is hot and intoxicating against Sherlock’s cheek.

“You’ll have to play it for me one day.”

“It’s a very long piece,” Sherlock breathes, and goddammit, his voice is trembling.

“I like watching you play.”

Sherlock needs some space between him and John, before he does something stupid and loses the best thing that ever happened to him. Something like turning his head towards John, who is so close, so close that Sherlock could very easily- no.

“H-how is Mary?” He asks, in panic. Stupid, _stupid_.

He doesn’t look at John as the boy sighs, rolling away from Sherlock and standing up.

“We… We broke up,” John says, sitting in the chair at his desk. Sherlock gapes at him, “What? When?”

John passes a hand through his hair, “The day we went at the pool.”

“But… You seemed to get along just fine?” Sherlock remembers in a sudden flash of jealousy Mary wrapping her arms around John’s semi-naked body, pressing her bare stomach against John’s back, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered something to him.

John sucks his lips over his teeth, then parts them with a ‘pop’. “The mysteries of life, uh?”

Sherlock furrows his brow, puzzled. Then he suddenly remembers that friends are supposed to be sympathetic in situations like this.

“I, uhm,” he clears his throat, “I’m sorry?”

John chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound. He waves his hand dismissively, “We weren’t going anywhere anyway,” he says, playing with the sleeves of his jumper.

“Can I ask… why?” Sherlock murmurs. He wants to know. He _needs_ to know, so that he can never lose John like Mary did.

John smiles sadly at his lap, shaking his head. Then he looks up, staring at Sherlock with… Sherlock doesn’t even know what the look in John’s eyes means, but it’s determined and so _earnest_ it makes Sherlock feel naked.

“Sherlock,” John begins, but he’s interrupted by a door slamming downstairs.

“ _Shit_ ,” John exclaims, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes.

Fear. That’s what Sherlock reads in those big, bright blue eyes. Right now, they are the colour of a stormy sky, and Sherlock doesn’t like it. John’s eyes are always the colour of a calm sea, kind and passionate.

“John!” an angry voice calls from the stairs, “Where the fuck are you?”

The man speaking is most certainly drunk, and it doesn’t take Sherlock’s deductive abilities to understand it must be John’s father, Richard Watson.

A powerful fist collides with the door, and John winces. John is terrified of his father, and Sherlock hates the man with all his might for turning the bravest and kindest person he knows in this lump of fear.

The door to John’s room slams open, crashing in the wall. The man leans against the doorway, bringing the hand that is not holding a bottle of beer to his forehead.

“Whatcha doing in here?” he slurs, then takes another gulp from the bottle.

John doesn’t answer, and Sherlock feels cold dread running down his spine, because John seems littler, as if his size shrank under his father’s voice.

Sherlock bites back any insult for the man or any word he might want to say to John. This is not his area. He knows John wouldn’t want him to get involved. All he can do is watch.

“Who’s this?” the man barks out, pointing a trembling finger at Sherlock.

Sherlock glances at John. _Can I answer?_ he asks with his eyes, and John nods imperceptibly.

“I’m Sherlock sir, Sherlock Holmes. I go to school with John.”

He stretches out his hand to the man, but he stares at him with distaste.

“I hate your fucking accent,” John’s father grumbles, shaking his head at the ground. Then his head snaps up and he looks frenetically between John and Sherlock.

“You a fag John?” he seethes, and John visibly pales.

John’s father nods angrily, “You can see this one’s a fairy,” he says, gesturing towards Sherlock, “with those girl’s clothes.” He sounds disgusted, and Sherlock looks at his tights, mortified. He has ballet later, and he’s about to tell Mr. Watson that that’s the only reason why he’s wearing tights instead of his usual jeans, but he figures that the man would be even more crossed.

“I’d never expected it from you,” he grumbles as he threateningly approaches John, who is doing something weird with his mouth.

“You’re a little queer, just like your sist-”

“YOU DON’T GET TO TALK ABOUT HER!” John jumps up from his chair and shoves at his father’s chest. Sherlock startles and almost falls from the bed, so much is the anger in his friend’s voice.

“You little shit,” John’s father spits out, smashing the bottle on the floor.

“How dare you lay a finger on me? I’m your fucking father, you got no respect! Who do you think brings the money home, eh?” he’s slowly moving towards John again, but this time the blond doesn’t seem as scared as before, and waits for his parent with his fists balled up at his sides, ready for a battle. He’s gloriously terrifying.

“Certainly not _you_ , since it’s mom the one who earns the most.”

The slap echoes through the room, and before Sherlock can think better of it, he’s standing between John and his father, shielding John from another attack.

“Out of the way!” the man snarls, and Sherlock shakes his head.

“My brother works for the government,” Sherlock hisses, glaring at John’s father.

“So?” The man asks, taking a step in his direction.

“So, he’s in contact, among others, with the police force. Do you want to know what he would do if I told him someone is bothering me? If you touch me, or John again, I can assure you that you’ll never see the light of the sun again.”

Sherlock’s voice is low, dark. He’s trying to threaten the man like his brother would do, like his brother is so good at doing. Before Richard Watson can answer, Sherlock feels a hand settling on his arm. He turns to look at John, but the boy is averting his eyes.

“Go,” he whispers, shoving at Sherlock’s arm.

“But… John-”

“I said _go_ ,” John repeats, this time firmer than before, but his gaze is still glued to the floor.

“Ya heard him,” John’s father says, gloating over Sherlock’s lost expression.

Sherlock snatches his jacket from the bed, stuffing his phone in the practice bag he uses for ballet and marches outside. He has yet to close the front door behind him, that the shouting starts again.

 

oO°Oo

 

It’s cold. He feels the cool air against his reddened cheeks. His bones are stiff, as if they have been surrounded by ice. 

The only thing that feels warm in all his body are the teardrops streaming down his face. The salty water that rolls down his cheek is warm, and makes the contrast with the cold around him so much more evident.

Every intake of breath brings ice in his tired lungs, and every single muscle in his body hurts.

He falls down on the wet grass, shivering. He just needs a couple of minutes, then he’ll start running again. November nights aren’t warm in England, and John knows he can’t yield to sleep, ending up sleeping out all night on the dirty, wet grass. In just a t-shirt and jeans. 

But he can’t get up, not now. Not when his muscles ache, his lungs are burning for the exhaustion and for the cold air and his mind is too busy screaming for him to think clearly. He reaches out and rips the hospital bracelet off his wrist, throwing it away. Then he starts sobbing, loudly. Every sound wrenches his chest, ripping him open. They leave him breathless, raw and aching on the wet soil that is starting to soak his clothes. He presses the balls of his hands in his eyes, trying to calm down, but it’s useless. He’s having a hard time breathing, and he knows he is on the verge of a panic attack, he’s familiar, way too familiar, with the feeling. He knows the signs, he knows he needs to calm down, but nothing works – not the breathing exercises Molly taught him, not the attempt at thinking of something else, nothing. He clenches and unclenches his fists, digging in the dirt around, and suddenly grey eyes fill his head. In a moment of clarity, he speed-dials Sherlock’s number, sending to hell his pride, and as soon as Sherlock answers he sobs in the phone in relief, asking to please, _please_ , come and collect him. Sherlock’s voice is calm and soothing, and he keeps talking and talking. John knows what Sherlock is doing: he’s trying to distract him, get John out of his own mind, make him calm down enough so that he can tell Sherlock more about what happened and where he is. John closes his eyes and listens to Sherlock’s voice, steady and relaxed and warm. It surrounds him like a blanket. 

Finally, his breaths slow down, and his mind stops screaming. Sherlock must know it, because he immediatly asks, now with a bit frantic, “John, where are you?” 

John tells him, still shivering. His voice is trembling, just as every limb in his body. And it’s not just the cold. Suddenly, John remembers how tired he is, and his eyelids grow heavier and heavier, the stars above becoming just blurred lights. 

“Keep talking to me, John,” Sherlock says, an edge of panic in his voice. John hears some doors slamming, hurried footsteps and then the engine of a car starting.

John shakes his head, even though Sherlock can’t possibly see him. 

“I’m halfway there, John. Are you awake?”

“Mmh,” John replies, keeping his eyes closed. He’s so goddamn tired. 

Just a couple of minutes, then he’ll wake up. 

 

oO°Oo

 

When he wakes up, John is lying on Sherlock’s bed. He’s in his underwear, and he’s covered with a fluffy blanket. He turns his head, and sees a glass of water and two pills of paracetamol on the bedside table. He sits up, looking around the room, lit only by the light that seeps through the space beneath the en-suite bathroom door.

John rubs his hands on his temple. He barely remembers Sherlock finding him in the park, or the two of them awkwardly stumbling towards the car. It’s all blurred in his mind, the feeling of Sherlock’s heat radiating from his body the only sharp memory.

The noise of a shower comes from the en-suite bathroom. John closes his eyes and listens to it, letting the steady, relaxing sound fill his mind. Eventually the water stops running, and John hears padding of feet and rustling of clothes, before the door opens.

Sherlock emerges from the bathroom in a grey oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, showing his collarbone. He’s barefooted, large boxers covering his legs at knee-length. His hair is soaked wet, and the boy is rubbing it with a towel. John’s heart skips a beat, and for just one millisecond, that short moment when his eyes meet Sherlock’s, he stops thinking. The only thing that matters, right here, right now, is Sherlock’s gaze locked with his. Sherlock’s eyes look green in the dim light of the bedroom, and they burn with intensity.

“Oh, you’re awake then. Hope it wasn’t me.”

That sentence, spoken in a hushed voice, breaks the atmosphere, and John is brought back to reality with wince.

“No, no, it wasn’t- I woke up on my own,” John assures him, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Good,” Sherlock replies, then he lowers his head, nodding at his feet.

“Good.”

Silence falls upon them, uncomfortable and heavy with unanswered questions.

John clears his throat, swallowing the lump that threatens to make him burst into tears _yet again_.

“Thank you, for the er, ya know, rescue and stuff.”

Sherlock just nods, shrugging one shoulder. Then he resumes running the towel through his hair.

“I think… Yeah, I guess I owe you some explana-”

“No,” Sherlock cuts him off, his tone firm.

“-tions… Sorry, what?”

“You owe me nothing, John. You don’t owe me a ‘thank you’ nor an explanation. I’m just glad you’re safe and not catching pneumonia in Regent’s Park.”

John’s jaw drops.

_“I’m just glad you’re safe.”_

John replays the words in his mind, unable to process them.

_“I’m just glad you’re safe.”_

Did Sherlock really just say that? John shakes his head. It’s a simple sentence, and yet it was uttered with such bare sincerity that it shook John to the core.  

Silence falls upon them once more. John is thinking of something to say to Sherlock, something good, something that will make Sherlock understand how kind and pure his words are. The guy probably doesn’t even realise.

“You’re a good friend, Sherlock.”

His words are not much, John knows it, but they have Sherlock blinking at him in shock for an alarmingly long amount of time nonetheless.

“Okay, that’s getting a bit scary now,” John chuckles, after a solid two minutes of Sherlock’s mute blinking.

Sherlock opens his mouth, as though to say something, but closes it immediately, narrowing his eyes at John.

“Do you-” Sherlock clears his throat, staring at his feet, “Do you really- do you mean that?”

John smiles sadly at Sherlock’s figure. The boy still won’t look at him, wriggling his toes, and John finds himself flooded with raw affection for that brilliant, amazing creature. Sherlock is so clever and beautiful, so passionate about what he loves and a volcano of energy and creativity. And yet, that gorgeous boy still blushes when John compliments him, he shuffles on his feet and looks away when John tells him how fantastic he is. Sherlock looks so small, standing there clutching his damp towel in his oversized clothes that all John wants to do is get up and cradle him in his arms. He would, if he weren’t afraid Sherlock might lean away from the touch.

“Yes, I do – wholeheartedly.”

John sees Sherlock’s mouth breaking into an involuntary grin, his cheeks flushed red.

“Would you like to take a shower?” Sherlock asks, after a few moments of silence.

John suddenly remembers why he is in his underwear in Sherlock’s bed, why he feels so cold, why his throat aches and his eyes are damp. It all dawns on him like ice cold water, and he winces visibly. It’s weird – moments before he was relishing in Sherlock’s words and shy expressions, and all that happened tonight seemed like a bad dream. But now the reality of it hits him like slap, making his eyes fill with tears.

Sherlock is frozen in his place, his eyes full of fear, and a part of John knows that he’s looking for the wrong thing he said to trigger John so badly. John opens his mouth to tell him that, no Sherlock, it’s nothing you said, but he finds himself emitting a loud sob, that echoes dramatically in the silent room.

His vision is blurred, and all he wants to do is get up and shut himself in the bathroom, where Sherlock can’t see him falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to choke out, before gasping so loudly he has to close his mouth with his hand.

“Sor- what- why would you be sorry?” Sherlock asks, quietly, so quietly it feels intimate.

John doesn’t answer, and tries to get up, escape Sherlock’s questioning eyes, but as soon as he is sat on the edge of the bed, Sherlock’s hands are on his shoulders.

“If you need to cry, cry. If you need to talk, talk. I’m here for whatever you might need.”

John’s hand clutch at Sherlock’s shirt, and he hides his face in Sherlock’s belly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles again, gritting his teeth.

Sherlock sits down beside him, and John lets go of his shirt, straightening up a bit.

“John,” Sherlock begins, staring at him with a steady and serious gaze, “If you’re saying you’re sorry for crying in front of me, then I’ll fucking hit you with my shoe.”

An involuntary laugh escapes from John’s mouth. It always amuses him when Sherlock swears. He wipes the tears away from his eyes with the back of his wrists, sniffing. He smiles up at Sherlock, who is looking at him with a worried expression, sweetened by the presence of a soft smile.

“It’s about my father,” John murmurs, almost without realising. Sherlock nods slightly, prompting John to continue.

“He- after you went away, he was mad, and we fought. A lot. He tried to hit me with some stuff I had in my room, so I ran downstairs and found that my mom had just got home from work, and then dad threw a bottle of beer at my head, but I avoided it and- it hit mom. It was full, and it hit her right on the forehead, Sherlock,” John is crying again now, “right here,” he almost yells, pointing at his forehead.

“She passed out, on the fucking floor, and I had to call an ambulance and ride with her to the A&E and she’s still there and these things have always happened in my life, but I can’t take it anymore, I’m just so fucking tired, and it was my fault, it’s my fault if mom-” John’s mumbling is interrupted by the feeling of Sherlock’s chest pressed against his cheek. Sherlock’s arms are all around his body, holding him there.

John’s hands clench around the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt again, and he allows himself to sob and gasp and let out all those black, ugly emotions he feels inside.

Sherlock doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. He just lets John wet his shirt and mumble against him, with his steady and comforting presence.

John doesn’t know how long it passes, but he calms down eventually, when his throat is sore and his eyes puffed and (surely) red.

“Would you like to take a shower?” Sherlock asks again, and John nods against his collarbone.

Sherlock gets up, retrieving a pair of clean underwear from a drawer and handing it to John, along with an olive green shirt and striped blue pyjama bottoms.

John takes everything from his hands, whispering a low “Thank you” and walking on unsteady feet towards the bathroom.

 

oO°Oo

 

Sherlock changes his shirt, preferring a blue one to his grey, now damp with John’s tears. He also wears long pyjama bottoms, feeling strangely cold after hearing John crying for nineteen minutes straight.

Downstairs a door opens, and Sherlock hears muffled laughter and fumbling of keys. His parents with Mycroft just came back home from their weekly dinner, the one he always manages to skip.

After dinner, his parents and Mycroft usually have a drink in the kitchen, then go say hi to Sherlock. He freezes. He knows in the morning he’ll have to explain John’s presence, but right now he doesn’t want his parents nor Mycroft to bother him. John is shaken and upset, he needs a good night’s sleep and relax, not Sherlock’s parents fussing over him and Mycroft’s “older brother’s” speech. The one the man has been preparing for months, waiting for Sherlock to introduce him to John.

He needs to hide John, at least until breakfast. He could go downstairs, to avoid his family coming up to his room. If he does though, they’ll know something is up. If he stays in his room, they’ll come up and see John. He could play his violin. His parents and Mycroft won’t bother him while he’s playing, especially if he picks a difficult piece. There is only one flaw in this plan: John is still inside the shower, and he can’t play if the water is still running without making everyone understand there are two people in his room. Sherlock shuts his eyes and _thinks_. In that moment, John shuts the water and pads out of the shower. Sherlock smiles. Perfect.

He takes his violin out and starts playing Bach’s “ _Chaconne_ ”, his eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration. It’s a difficult piece, and his parents know how hard he is working on it to play it perfectly. They also know that he is working on a complex ballet choreography for it.

They are aware that they mustn’t disturb Sherlock while he is performing this piece.

Sherlock plays and plays, and barely notices John stepping out of the bathroom and sitting on the bed. He lets the music fill every fibre of his being, making sure to perform the piece flawlessly. Bach is so hard.

He was mathematical, and every note must be measured perfectly, or else he’ll ruin the whole piece. He concentrates, drowning out every sound that comes from around him – Mycroft closing the door to his room, his parents’ low whispers as they walk by his door, John’s ragged breath just in front of him.

He plays with passion, his violin bow dancing on the strings with a precision never achieved before.

When he finishes playing, he’s breathless. His shoulder blades ache, and he’s so thirsty his throat is burning. It always happens after he plays for a while, he doesn’t know why.  

Breathing hard, he opens his eyes, and notices that John is staring at him from the bed. His mouth is hanging open, and Sherlock shifts uncomfortably under that intense gaze.

Perhaps John did not like it?

“S-sorry,” he mumbles after a few seconds, passing a hand through his hair, “this piece is a bit hard for me, because I don’t usuall-”

“What?” John asks shaking head, incredulous.

“Sherlock, that was... wow,” he murmurs, staring up at Sherlock in awe. Sherlock feels himself blushing, and his lips curl up in an involuntary smile.

“For real, Sherlock, I mean... holy crap, that was... unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs, his cheeks on fire and his lips stretched in a sheepish grin. He stares pointedly at John’s bare feet, and he hears him drawing in a breath, so Sherlock interrupts him before he can speak.

“Listen,” he whispers, walking up to John to sit on the bed with him, “My parents and Mycroft just went to bed, and Mycroft’s room is just across mine and... I mean, he’s probably still awake, and if you go to the guest room he’ll start asking you questions, and you’re tired now, you can answer him tomorrow, so I thought...” he takes a deep breath, “Would you mind sharing the bed?”

Sherlock feels his heart pounding in his ears, and he can feel his sweaty hands losing their grasp on the violin and the bow. John doesn’t answer, so after a few seconds, Sherlock turns his head to look at him. His eyes are closed, and his nail are delving in the flesh of his forearms.

Sherlock swallows around something painful, “O-of course if you _do_ mind I can sleep on the floor, it’s no bother, or-”

John places his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “No I- It’s not a problem ya know, I mean if-if...” he trails off, closing his eyes and taking in a shuddering breath.

Sherlock’s feels tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Have Mr. Watson’s words somehow discouraged John to pursue his friendship with a _fag_? Suddenly, angers burns in his chest.

“Seriously John, I swear I won’t ravish you in your sleep, but if you’re really _that_ scared, I can sleep for real on the floor.”

John stays silent, so Sherlock gets up with stiff movements and lowers his violin and the bow on the desk, ignoring the fact that John is crawling under the covers without even sparing him a glance. Hastily, he retrieves a couple of blankets and a spare pillow from his wardrobe.

“Stop,” John murmurs, when Sherlock tosses the stuff on the floor. His eyes narrow on John’s figure, now in foetal position under the cover, facing the wall.

“Come here,” he says, blindly patting the mattress behind him with a hand. Sherlock is tempted to tell John to fuck off, but the perspective of sleeping all night on the cold ass floor is not alluring in the least. Holding his breath, fearing rejection, Sherlock slowly lowers himself on the bed and crawls under the covers. He turns his back to John, reaching out a hand to turn off the light.

“Good night, John,” he whispers in the dark.

Silence answers him.

 

oO°Oo

 

Sherlock wakes up at around 3am, when John’s hand painfully collides with his face.

“Ouch,” he exclaims, but he freezes when he notices John’s frantic movements, his damp skin and his ragged breath. Nightmare.

Sherlock almost panics. What the hell does one do in a situation like this?

“Ssh, John, it’s me, Sherlock,” he tries to whisper soothingly, but John keeps panting and fighting against the restraint of the covers.

Sherlock’s heart hammers against his ribcage, and out of pure instinct, he leans forward and hugs John. The smaller boy fights and kicks against the hold, but Sherlock keeps murmuring in a low, steady voice all the comforting things he can come up with. This is not his area. Feelings, support, soothing. How the hell is he supposed to cope with this stuff? He turns on his back, holding John flat against his chest, caressing his hair.

John slowly calms down, due to the litany of “I’m here”s, “I’ve got you”s, “It’s alright”s.

Finally, John stops struggling, but he doesn’t wake up. He lowers his cheek on Sherlock chest and breathes in deeply. Sherlock feels exhaustion and relief wash all over him, and he hugs John a bit more tightly against himself, relishing in the feeling of John’s sweetly redolent hair under his nose,  the weight of his head on his chest, the warmth of their legs tangled together.

He knows that he should move John, that John wouldn’t be happy to wake up in that position. But Sherlock is so bloody tired and, for just one night, he wants to pretend to have John like this. His.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece that Sherlock plays is one of my ever faves, and as a violinist myself I can assure you it really is a tough piece, way more than it sounds. If you want to listen to it, try [Hilary Hahn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqA3qQMKueA)'s version, which is my favourite. I have it on my phone and listen to it almost daily, it's flawless. In my opinion though, Sherlock would play it more in a [Vengerov](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSAMK3kiz5c) sort of style. Well, you try both and tell me what you think! :)
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND WAITING FOR SO LONG, THANK YOU, REALLY.  
> And remember: comments are way more than welcome, so please leave one! :)  
> See you soon xx


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha I have been writing this 2k chapter for three months, if you can believe me. No wait, more. I started it in October, you calculate. I'm sorry I'm so slow, I really really am, but I promise I'm gonna finish this!
> 
> I haven't proofread this because I wanted to post it as soon as possible, since I'm already terribly late. Sorry again. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking up with my slow ass yikes
> 
> In this chapter we finally start earning that E rating, yee :D
> 
> Enjoy!

John wakes up feeling rested and content, snuggled in the arms of a warm body sleeping underneath him. He sighs happily, his eyes still closed, and he burrows his face in a soft t-shirt, inhaling deeply a comforting, familiar smell.

Wait.

John jerks away and stands up in a quick motion, backing away from Sherlock’s sleeping form. The boy barely notices, his slumber unbothered by John’s movements.

John shakes his head, breathing deeply. He had been sleeping on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s arms had been wrapped around him. Their hips had been flushed together. Their legs had been tangled.

And John has an erection. Great.

He groans in annoyance. His best friend, for fuck’s sakes! He hides his face in his hands, feeling so ashamed he can’t even work out the strength to get to the bathroom and jerk off.

Luckily, Sherlock is still asleep. What would have happened if Sherlock had noticed?

John grimaces. Best not to think of that.

Sherlock probably isn’t even aware that they had been sleeping on top of each other, and that’s only good news. John takes a deep breath, and tries not to stare too much at Sherlock’s face, that is relaxed and almost childlike when he sleeps.

He’s so beautiful.

Sherlock shifts, and John runs in the bathroom, his heart racing wildly. He leans with his back against the door, breathing slowly, trying to regain his composure. Which is kinda hard, considering he has a massive erection tenting the trousers Sherlock had lent him.

With red cheeks and shaking his head, John walks towards the shower, divesting himself as he does, and steps in. Cold water is what he needs.

But his skin is still warm from being that close to Sherlock, and John is quite rueful to wash away the sensation. He fiddles with the taps, and a stream of mild water pours down on him. He sighs, leaning with his forehead on the tile wall.

His cock is twitching painfully, but John ignores it. He’s not going to wank in Sherlock’s shower, ta. With stiff movements, he grabs, squeezing some lotion on his palm. The night before he had been too shaken to wash his hair properly, letting the hot scalding water wash away the cold that had been chilling his bones.

He runs the lotion in his hair, and a whiff of its smell reaches his nostrils. His eyes widen.

He bites down on his lower lip, and his cock gives an interested twitch. Sherlock’s shampoo. Sherlock’s smell.

On him.

Uncalled for, images of Sherlock showering in this very shower fill his head. And he can’t ignore his hardness any longer.

Feeling full of shame, knowing that Sherlock is just behind that door, awake (he can hear music coming from the room), John takes his cock in his hand and jerks his wrist.

The pleasure is a sharp shock that has him bend over, biting down on a fist. He gives his cock quick strokes, trying as hard as he can not to make any noise.

_Sherlock naked in this shower. Sherlock’s muscles shifting under his pale skin as he runs his hands through his curls. Sherlock’s hair, damp and darker, flattened to his head._

John gasps, and leans with his head against the tiles, hiding his face in his forearm, pumping relentlessly. He’s close.

 _Wandering droplets of water running down Sherlock’s back, gathering in the dimples at the bottom of his spine. Sherlock’s eyes closed, his head tilted up, towards the stream of water_.

Biting down on the soft flesh of his arm, John comes in a white wave, his knees buckle and his head spins. As far as orgasms goes, this was quite unsatisfactory. It leaves John feeling the wrong kind of boneless, and he can wash away his self-loathing.

He scrubs at his skin until it’s bright pink and burns, and still the shame lingers. He doesn’t know how to face Sherlock.

It’s not like this is the first time John has touched himself thinking of his best friend. But it usually happened after a wet dream, and surely not after said best friend had offered him comfort.

Christ, what kind of friend is John? And he _knew_ this could happen, and he’d tried to tell Sherlock they ought to sleep separately, but Sherlock had thought John was being homophobic and bugger! John just couldn’t resist. Had he been a good friend, he’d ignore Sherlock’s hurt voice, but deep down he just wanted an excuse to share a bed. Which is _pathetic_. How old is he, five?

John grunts, shutting the water off and padding out.

He wears the same boxers Sherlock lent him last night (and he pointedly does _not_ think that this is Sherlock’s underwear, that he has worn and- stop) and the rest of the pyjama.

He exits feeling awfully raw and exposed, and one look at Sherlock’s flushed cheeks tells him what he already knows; Sherlock is perfectly aware of what he was doing in the shower. Great.

Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly, shifting his weight on his feet, looking everywhere but John.

John decides he should be the one to break this stiff silence, since Sherlock apparently won’t.

“What are you listening to?” He asks, because he doesn’t know the music that is playing softly from Sherlock’s laptop.

Sherlock shrugs with only one shoulder, smiling self-deprecatingly at the floor. “Troye Sivan,” he answers, fidgeting just a little.

John furrows his brow. “I… I don’t think I know him.”

“Oh, he’s an Australian youtuber,” Sherlock explains quickly, blushing beet red and slamming the laptop close, in clear embarrassment.

John smiles fondly at him. God, he adores him.

“C’mon, show me,” he insists, sitting down at the desk and opening the lid. Sherlock sighs and slumps on the chair next to him. John hits play and lets the music go on.

It’s a kind of nostalgic melody, and the lyrics suit the melancholic general mood. The colouring of the video is desaturated, and there is some kind of plot, John is sure, but he can’t grasp it. Then the singer appears, and John gapes at the screen.

“Holy shit,” he exclaims, looking frenetically between Sherlock and the boy on the screen.

Sherlock frowns, puzzled. “What?”

“You totally look alike! You and this Troye chap!”

Sherlock’s frown deepens, and he pauses the video as the boy on the screen is tying a tie.

“I don’t wear ties,” Sherlock mumbles, and John laughs.

Right then, someone knocks on the door.

“Mr. Sherlock?” A quiet voice calls.

Sherlock huffs. “Yeah Sophia, tell Mummy I’m coming down!”

“Sophia?” John quirks a brow at Sherlock. The boy flaps a hand around.  

“Maid,” he explains, sounding even a bit miffed, and John shakes his head. A fucking maid. He always forgets how rich Sherlock actually is.

Sherlock gets up and heads for the door, but before he can open it, John grabs his arm and stops him.

“Listen, I, uhm, thank you,” he stammers out, staring at Sherlock’s bare feet, “For last night and all.”

Sherlock shrugs and opens the door. “It wasn’t a problem at all.”

John follows Sherlock with a sort of dazed expression, wondering if his friend realises just how amazing and selfless he is. He probably doesn’t.

As they approach the kitchen, John feels a weird sense of uneasiness settle in his stomach. He’s going to have breakfast with Sherlock’s parents and he’s going to meet bloody Mycroft for the first time. In pyjamas. Sherlock’s pyjamas. After having spent the night in Sherlock’s room. Great.

Sherlock enters the kitchen and is greeted by ‘Good morning’s and the sound of cutlery tinkling together. John takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and steps in. He had expected pointed stares and curious glances, but no one seems to be put out by his presence.

The family is sat at the large table, Violet Holmes spreading butter on a slice of bread, while her husband sips on his coffee just on her right. Facing John is apparently Mycroft Holmes, of whom John still can’t see the face, hidden as it is by a large newspaper.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, taking a place on a stool beside Sherlock.

“Morning John dear,” Violet says sweetly, and Siger looks at him and nods, smiling brightly at him.

“Coffee or orange juice?” Violet questions him, getting up.

“Erm, just coffee please.”

She nods with a smile and grabs a mug, turning to the kitchen counter, where she fills it with freshly made coffee.

“There you are.” She places the mug in front of him, and ruffles his hair. John swallows hard, the domesticity of the situation making him ache in weird ways.

He tries not to be too awkward when he leans forward to grab the china milk jug to pour some in his coffee.

“So,” a voice says, and John turns his head towards the mysterious Mycroft Holmes, who hadn’t spoken since John entered the room.

“Am I meeting the famous John Watson, finally?” He asks with a grin, that seems dangerous somehow, and John bites on his lower lip, glancing at Sherlock. His friend is glaring at his brother as though he could carve a hole between his eyes with just his will, and John finds himself almost laughing.

“Yeah, that’d be me,” he answers, smiling politely at Mycroft.

“And you must be Mycroft, right? Sherlock has told me so much about you.”

Mycroft smirks bitterly, “Please don’t feel compelled to report what my dear baby brother goes around telling his friends about me.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” John says, grinning toothily at Sherlock, “He loves you, deep down.”

“John,” Sherlock hisses, pinching John arm. John yelps and smacks Sherlock’s thigh, seething, “Child.”

And then he’s smiling softly at Sherlock, who has blushed till the tip of his ears and has not denied John’s words. At that point, John looks back at Mycroft, and finds the man staring at him with his mouth slightly agape, a stunned look on his face.

Puzzled, John looks to Violet and Siger, but they too are looking at John with raptured expressions. John self-consciously clears his throat, and sets out to take a sip from his coffee.

When they finish breakfast, Mycroft intercepts John before he can follow Sherlock.

Mycroft leads John to the living room, and sits down on an armchair, prompting John to take the one in front of his.

“Yeah?” John questions, when it’s been about two minutes and the man still hasn’t spoken, staring intently at John and steepling his hands under his chin.  

“What is the real nature of your affiliation with Sherlock?”

John gapes at him. That’s not what he has been expecting.

“I… sorry?” Perhaps he misheard.

Mycroft rolls his eyes in a gesture reminiscent of Sherlock. “What is the real nature of your affiliation with Sherlock?” He asks again, more slowly, as though John were an idiot.

John sets his jaw, not enjoying Mycroft’s tone and gaze. The man already gives him the creeps.

“I’m his friend,” he replies because really, what else could he say? The truth would sound something like,  “ _He’s my best friend and I’ve only recently realised I’m quite desperately in love with him and sometimes I look at him and think he might feel the same but others I have no fucking clue and he’s the best thing that ever happened to me so I’m scared of sending everything tits up_.”

Mycroft heaves a long-suffering sigh, “Let us not beat around the bush. My brother is not the kind to make friends easily, or at all. So you can understand my concern when you two suddenly became thick as thieves.”

There something wrong in Mycroft’s voice. Something in his affected politeness that makes John’s blood run to his brain. He stands straighter and broadens his shoulders, feeling all the positively miffed. No, he’s fucking pissed.

“What do you want?” He snaps, clenching his fists. There is a hidden question behind Mycroft’s words, and John won’t “beat around the bush”, like the man had just suggested.

Mycroft gives him a lopsided grin that John doesn’t like at all. “Oh, perhaps I can understand what my brother sees in you.”

John tilts his head and says nothing. Mycroft leans forward, studying John intently as he does.

When he speaks again, his voice has got a soft edge that surprises John.

“Take care of him John.”

That is all Mycroft says, before getting up and into the kitchen again.

John stares dumbfounded at the empty seat in front of him, unable to formulate a coherent thought.

 

oO°Oo

 

“What have you done to my cousin?” Irene snarls, after she has cornered John just outside school.

 _Oh great,_ John thinks sarcastically, _another member of the Holmes coming to warn me about Sherlock._

“Nothing,” he sighs, but Irene’s eyes are still glaring.

“I mean it!” He explains, “I just needed a place to crash and slept over at his, that’s literally all that happened.” John takes a deep breath, Irene’s eyes narrowing on him like Sherlock’s when he’s deducing.

“You’re such an idiot, John,” she finally says, sighing sadly and shaking her head.

John just furrows his brows at her, absolutely _not_ gaping. She tsk’s repeatedly, before leaning her hands on John’s shoulders.

“Honey, are you sleeping at Sherlock’s tonight as well?”

John just nods.

“Then do something you two never manage to do. Talk.”

John scoffs. “We talk all the time.”

Irene shakes her head. “Never about you, or how you feel.”

John is just about to ask what the hell is going on that Irene has disappeared. Bloody great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER IS FINALLY THE AWAITED SMUT YAY YAY 
> 
> Thank you for reading! xx


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I know, another short chapter, but I hope you'll enjoy anyway! 
> 
> Let me tell you a secret: refractory period does not exist. Share the word! 
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine and mine only, fear not pointing them out! :)

John seems unable to meet Sherlock’s eye. All throughout the day, John almost ignores him.

Sherlock thinks that maybe that’s due to the fact that he has seen John cry the night before, and the fact that John is staying over another night. He had run away without any keys and he doesn’t want to ring the doorbell, fearing his father’s reaction.

Sherlock doesn’t want to ask him what’s wrong, because that would be a stupid question. Too much is wrong in John’s life, fact that makes Sherlock’s skin crawl in anger. John deserves everything good and beautiful in this world, being him the bravest and wisest and kindest and most beautiful human being that Sherlock has ever known.

What if John is mad at him, though? What if John resents Sherlock for being there in a moment of weakness? Or what if Sherlock has done something wrong?

Sherlock starts sweating, a cold dread settles in his stomach. He can’t lose John, no. He has hidden his feelings for him, however hard that was, had been less of a prick around him, had tried to be friends with his friends (including Mary) and he had managed, so why would John be mad at him? Why does John hate him now? Why does he want to call off their friendship?

Sherlock can’t breathe as he climbs in the car next to John, John silently staring out of a window, seeming even awkward and hyperaware of his closeness to Sherlock.

Oh, shit, what if John has discovered what Sherlock feels for him? Is he disgusted? How is he going to reject Sherlock? Nicely? Rudely?

When they get to Sherlock’s house, John immediately asks a maid to prepare the host room.

Sherlock wants to scream.

 

oO°Oo

 

John has been thinking about Irene’s words all day, coming to the conclusion that his feelings for Sherlock were now plain as day.

He stares at the ceiling in the host room, his heart beating loudly in his chest. Has he ruined his friendship with Sherlock? Sherlock had seemed weirdly quiet today.

“Shit,” John whispers in the dark.

Sometimes people do the silliest if things at night. Probably because sleeping is a little like dying, John thinks, and that feeling of impending death pushes even the most coward to become bolder.

This is what John tells himself (bolder, not stupid) as he gets up and heads to Sherlock's bedroom, tiptoeing through the silent, dark halls of Holmes manor.

He doesn't knock, he just opens the door and heads to Sherlock's bed.

“Are you awake?” He whispers to the lump under the covers.

Endless seconds pass, and John is about to turn and leave when Sherlock moves. He lifts his covers in silence, and just as silently John climbs into the bed.

They stay silent for a while, then John asks, “Who killed Mrs. Robson's dog?”

 Sherlock answers right away. “Mr. Robson.”

John turns his head on the pillow to gape at him. “What? Seriously?”

Sherlock nods at the ceiling, and John can see him chewing on his lower lip. John smiles softly.

“Come on, I know you’re dying to tell me everything.”

Sherlock smirks, “Mrs. Robson is in love with our dear Hector.”

John is positively shocked now. “What?” He asks again, dumbfounded.

Sherlock now giggles.

“Does Hector know?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and his curls brush against John’s cheek, making him shiver.

“How the hell did you work it out?” He queries.

Sherlock turns his head, and now they are nose to nose, as Sherlock says, “The blood pH was less than 7.3, which indicates kidneys failure. He was probably poisoned with car antifreeze, so by someone who has a car and cares about it. I saw Mr. Robson’s car and it gave me all the answers I needed, as well as the bottle of antifreeze beside it. Now I just need more solid proof to avoid Hector being expelled.”

John would be impressed by Sherlock’s deduction, if it wasn’t for the fact that Sherlock had spoken softly, his eyes boring into John, his hot breath on John’s cheeks.

Perhaps it was the look in Sherlock’s eyes, or his quickened breath, or it was just goddamn time.

“Sherlock,” John begins slowly, “Ask me why Mary and I broke up.”

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat, and John can barely breathe as well as he waits for Sherlock to speak again.

“Wh-why?” Sherlock’s voice is a bit hoarse, and tenderly insecure. It gives John the courage he needs.

“Because I’m in love with someone else.”

There is no need to specify ‘who’, not in the dark and the quiet of this room. Not with their faces so close that leaning in for a kiss is just the next natural step.

John thinks he is imploding. This kiss is devastating in its simplicity, in its tender tentativeness, in its sheer power.

Sherlock leans back after a few seconds, and all he manages to say is, “John.”

John shivers, feeling so elated he can hardly believe. He starts laughing.

After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock is giggling along with him.

“Stop it, we can’t giggle during our first kiss,” John says between fits of laughter.

He doesn’t expect Sherlock to lean forward and kiss him again, more deeply this time, his tongue messily darting out, with the urgency of the unexperienced.

“Oh, hey there, slow down,” John murmurs, framing Sherlock’s cheeks with his hands.

“Like this,” he says, and kisses Sherlock more slowly. Just lips on lips first, then he traces the outline of Sherlock’s lips with his tongue. Sherlock moans softly, and John takes the chance to run his tongue over Sherlock’s, teaching him slowly how to move. Sherlock is a quick learner, and only a few minutes later, John has an erection and a blank mind. Then something occurs to him.

“Wait, Sherlock,” he whispers, “You’ve never… had anyone, right?”

“I’ve never kissed anyone nor done… anything else,” Sherlock says with mock boldness, but John can read his embarrassment.

“Well, you’re a great kisser,” John replies, to make Sherlock feel more at ease (and because it’s true, goddammit).

Sherlock is already fumbling with John’s pyjama trousers, and John has to stop him by gripping his wrists.

“Wait,” he says again. “We need to talk.”

Sherlock scoffs, “About what?”

John rolls his eyes, thinking, _This is the boy you’ve fallen for, deal with it._

John blinks in the dark. He still hasn’t said it out loud.

“Sherlock, I… I’m in love with you,” He says, and it should terrify him, but it doesn’t. It’s the most natural thing John has ever said.

Sherlock stays silent for a while, and John has no idea what’s going on in that big brain.

“I… I think, I mean,” Sherlock grunts, annoyed that he can’t finish a sentence.

John smiles at him, brushing an errant curl behind his ear. “You don’t have to say it back now.”

Sherlock nods, exhaling loudly. John loves him so much he thinks his heart might explode.

Still gripping Sherlock’s wrists, he pins Sherlock to the bed, straddling his waist.

“We don’t have to do anything,” John says, his hard on painful in his boxers, “But…”

“But you have an erection, and so do I,” Sherlock replies pragmatically, swaying his hips a bit, making their hardness meet through the layers of fabric.

John hisses, and he’s ready to grind down when he stops. “Sherlock, are you sure? I mean, you’ve never done anything, would you prefer we go more slowly or-”

“Oh for fuck’s sakes, John, let’s do it!”

John chuckles at Sherlock’s impatience. “Okay then,” he says, grinding down, seeking friction.

Sherlock moans immediately, and John tries to bear in mind that Sherlock is a virgin, and likely to come sooner rather than later.

John lifts his hips and ignores his needs, deciding to focus on Sherlock and Sherlock only.

He helps him take off his shirt, then runs his lips over Sherlock’s torso, eliciting goose bumps where he passes, smiling in the white planes of his body.

He closes his mouth around a nipple, suckling lightly. Sherlock almost screams, a strangled sound muffled by John’s hand on his mouth.

Still keeping Sherlock’s mouth closed, John works on the boy’s nipples until they are both hard and hypersensitive, and Sherlock is a quivering mess.

Only then John kneels beside Sherlock and bends to kiss him again. As he does, he runs his hand down Sherlock’s belly, his fingers insinuating beneath the elastic band of his pyjama trousers.

“You sure?” John murmurs against Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock can’t even answer, he just nods.

John closes his fist around Sherlock’s hard cock and pulls once, twice, and Sherlock is already coming.

 

oO°Oo

 

Stupid, stupid Sherlock! He had come in his pants in five seconds, like stupid fourteen-year-olds. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Now John will be disappointed and-

John chuckles, kissing him again.

“God, I love you,” John says, and it’s the second time John says it, and yet Sherlock still feels like being punched in the stomach. It’s pure happiness.

He smiles in the crook of John’s neck, “I’m sorry.”

John shakes his head, “Don’t be, you were great.”

Sherlock feels boneless, incredibly so, and all he’d want to do is to lie down and sleep, but he forces himself to turn and ask, “What about you?”

John smiles down at him, pecking his cheek. “It’s fine love, you must be tired.”

The word ‘love’, spoken so naturally, has the power to wake Sherlock almost completely.

“Take off your pants, John, please,” he pleads, making John’s eyes grow impossibly dark.

John readily complies, and Sherlock is all too grateful that the boy is not asking him if he feels ready or other bullshit. It’s John. Of course Sherlock is ready.

John lies with his back on the mattress, and Sherlock kneels between his spread thighs. Despite feeling so tired earlier, now Sherlock is hyperaware of everything, and he’s getting hard again.

He wants to give John a blowjob, but John stops him by lifting his chin to meet his eye.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

Sherlock nods awkwardly, before closing his mouth around the head of John’s impressively big cock. Then he stops. He doesn’t know what to do.

John runs a hand through his hair.

“It’s fine, love.”

“No, John, I want to do this.”

John nods seriously. “I’ll guide you.”

Sherlock ignores the fluttering in his belly and his now hard cock, concentrating on John.

“Okay, take the head in your mouth and run your tongue around – oh God, yes like-like that. Th-then slide down- ouch, teeth, love, okay good, oh Christ, slide down, now suck and back up and down, of _fuck_ , like this love, yes- now use your tongue, oh fuck fuck fuck-”

Sherlock follows John’s instructions, the boy’s reactions giving him confidence. Sherlock discovers that giving a blowjob is not as hard as he thought.

After a while though, the muscles in his jaw start to ache, and John must notice, because he takes Sherlock’s head in his hands and lifts him off his cock.

Without speaking, John takes Sherlock by his shoulders and makes him lie down. John takes his trousers and pants down and dips his head.

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. He’s never felt anything like this. And John is so _good._

His tongue tracing Sherlock’s veins and the suction is just _right_ , and his mouth is so _warm_. John pulls off to whisper, “Suck,” to Sherlock, lifting his hand so that Sherlock can suck his fingers.

Sherlock sucks with gusto, running his tongue around John’s index and middles finger and between the two, coating them in saliva. All the while John keeps sucking him off and _God_ , it’s too good to be true.

John takes his hand back and Sherlock cries out at the loss, but then there is a finger at his entrance, and after that he can feel John’s index finger all the way up in his arse.

“J-John,” Sherlock tries to say, but then John crooks his finger and then, _then_ Sherlock sees the light.

He doesn’t even have time to warn John, and comes directly in the boy’s mouth, but John doesn’t complain, swallowing everything down. _It’s fucking hot_ , Sherlock thinks. _And John must be a sex god_ , he decides.

Panting, Sherlock falls with his head on the pillow.

“Shit,” he says, “You still need to finish.”

John chuckles and shakes his head, lying half on top of Sherlock, his face in the crook of his neck.

“You were so fucking hot love, I finished myself while sucking you off,” John says, and Sherlock would blush, weren’t he so smug as to make John Watson tell him he was ‘so fucking hot’.

Sherlock hugs John tight to his chest, almost afraid the blonde boy could fly away if he’s not careful. John hugs him just as tightly, before saying, “Goodnight, boyfriend.”

Sherlock stills. God, he loves John.

He wanted to ask him what they were now, and John has preceded him, knowing just what Sherlock needed to hear.

_Boyfriend._

Sherlock Holmes has a boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes, the boy they all said was going to be alone for ever, the boy who risked to die at seventeen, that boy had a boyfriend. A loving, beautiful, perfect boyfriend.

_John Watson is my boyfriend._

Thinking it doesn’t make sense, so Sherlock mouths the words until he falls asleep.

 

oO°Oo

 

“God it was embarrassing,” John complains, his head hidden in his hands, as he and Sherlock ride to school.

Sherlock laughs, “My Mum just gave you some condoms John, don’t be prude.”

“Oi,” John says, “It’s still your _Mum_ for fuck’s sakes, it’s embarrassing as fuck! They all heard us! You saw how your fucking brother was watching me this morning at breakfast? If looks could kill, I’d be dead by now for having ravished his little brother.”

Sherlock can’t stop laughing, feeling completely happy for maybe the first time in his life. He loves John and John loves him back and everything is perfect.

John helps Sherlock jump off the car and immediately holds his hand out.

“Is it fine for you to tell everyone?” He asks.

Sherlock, short of breath and stomach clenched, answers, “If-if it’s fine for you, I mean…”

John smiles up at him, lacing their fingers together.

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed please leave a comment, let me know what you think! Thank you for reading :) xx 
> 
> See you next chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAH ALMOST FIVE MONTHS OF HIATUS WHAT I'M SORRY HERE, ENJOY I LOVE YOU
> 
> It's only 1k but next chapter is gonna be some heavy shit, so hang in there, bear with me! 
> 
> Also I started to take commissions, so if you'd like to commission a fic too, just hit me up @[girljohn](http://girljohn.tumblr.com/) and check my [commission fees](http://girljohn.tumblr.com/post/143057593620/hello-everyone-im-a-trans-mentally-ill-kid-who). 
> 
> Enjoy! xx

Life as John Watson’s boyfriend is amazing, Sherlock decides. It’s still only day one, but it’s the most beautiful day of Sherlock’s life.

The eyes are all on them as they walk hand in hand though the school corridor, whispers follow them around. Sherlock puffs with pride at every girl’s lingering look at John, at Mrs. Hudson’s soft smile when she sees John pecking Sherlock on the cheek right before exiting the classroom.

They enter the canteen still holding hands, apparently unable to let go. Sherlock had feared John’s teammates’ reaction, but they seem not to care, and clap John on the shoulder and jokingly threaten Sherlock to “break his bones if he breaks the cap’s heart”.

Irene kisses both their cheeks, forcing them into a group hug, while Anthea lifts her head briefly from her phone to nod at them.

Greg is annoyingly euphoric.

“Stop smiling,” Sherlock grits out, making both John and Greg laugh. And John kisses his cheek.

He should be rude to Lestrade more often, he thinks.

“Now we can have a double date!” Janine exclaims happily, twining her fingers with Irene’s, as Mary smiles at all of them.

“God, no,” John laughs, “No double dates please.”

Sherlock loves him. They are always on the same wavelength, even in these little things.

“I’m so happy for you, guys,” Mary says sincerely, making Sherlock smile at her.

He’s not jealous of her, surprisingly. Perhaps because since seeing them together she hasn’t stopped grinning.

Yes, life as John Watson’s boyfriend is the best thing that has ever happened in Sherlock’s life.

 

oO°Oo

 

John hugs Sherlock to his chest, as they lie in bed, watching a James Bond movie.

“Dull,” Sherlock keeps repeating, but leans into John’s touch where his hand is running through his hair.

Sherlock is impossible, rude, difficult, but John loves him. No, no ‘buts’. He loves him _because_ all his flaws, loves all of him, endlessly.

And now, now that he is allowed to hold him like this, now that he can bend down to kiss his lips and see his blissed out smile, now that he has all of this, John knows he can never go back.

Never.

He’s so in love with Sherlock it’s almost quite ridiculous; he has met him not a few months ago, they have been together for a night and a day.

But this evening, here, despite his mum is still in hospital and his father on the run, John could never be happier.

John taps with his fingers on Sherlock’s arm, a silent ‘I love you’ in Morse code. Sherlock grins up at him and there is no need for him to say, “Me too.” John already knows it.

 

oO°Oo

 

The next day, the hospital calls.

“John Watson?” A kind voice asks from the other side of the phone.

“This is St. Bartholomew’s hospital. Your mother is hospitalised here?”

“Yes, yes, I’m listening.”

“Well, she’s ready to be dismissed. Can you come here or send someone else?”

“No, I… I’m on my way. Tell her not to go home alone.”

The nurse sounds sad as she says, “Sir, she’s too weak for that.”

 

oO°Oo

 

John gets to the hospital breathless.

“Mum!” He yells when he sees her, and runs into her arms, trying to breathe her comforting smell in. It’s barely there, underneath smell of disinfectants and hospital food.

“Johnny,” she murmurs against his hair, hugging him to her chest.

“How are you?” He checks, looking her straight in the eye.

She smiles so softly at him he wants to cry.

“I’m fine, love, see?”

 _Well, at least she’s talking_ , John thinks.

Right then, John feels a hand settling at the small of his back.

“Sherlock,” John is surprised; what is Sherlock doing here? And why are his parents and his bloody brother with him?

“Julia Watson?” Violet asks, smiling non-threateningly.

She extends her elegant hand and Julia grabs it, shaking it weakly.

“Mum meet…” John takes a deep breath, gathering all his courage. “Meet my boyfriend’s family.”

This is his coming out to his mum. He doesn’t know how she will take it.

She barely blinks, and then smiles, a smile so bright and happy, for the first time in so many years, that John actually cries this time.

Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and start rolling down his cheek.

Sherlock takes his hand and John squeezes it, wordlessly. Julia grins at Violet, Siger and Mycroft.

“How lovely to meet you,” she says, then her eyes land on Sherlock, and her gaze softens, “Especially you.”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock offers, sticking out the hand that is not holding John’s.

“You’re very handsome dear,” Julia says, and Sherlock smiles shyly at her.                    

“Why are you here anyway?” John sniffles, turning to the Holmeses.

“We had a proposition to make,” Violet chirps, taking both Julia’s hands in hers. The woman looks down in shock.

John should have warned them Julia doesn’t like to be touched by strangers. All his father’s fault.

But his mum doesn’t pull away from Violet’s hold, trusting her implicitly. John loves his mother fiercely. She’s the bravest woman John knows.

“John is already sleeping at ours, would you mind… sleeping at our home too? We have a big house, with many rooms. We can host you while your husband… cools down. I’m sorry if this is rude or inappropriate, but-”

“No, I…” She looks at John. John nods imperceptibly, a silent, “You can trust them,” and “They won’t hurt us.”

“I… Okay,” Julia says, and Violet’s smile could light up an entire city.

 

oO°Oo

 

Julia Watson doesn’t speak much, Sherlock notes. She sits in a chair and stares at the void for hours. It’s John who brings her the food and takes her to bed in the evening.

It’s plain as day how much John loves his mother.

And Sherlock couldn’t love John more.

Life is perfect, Sherlock thinks; John and his mother are safe, John is _his_ and everything is just… _perfect_.

Then Jim Moriarty comes to their school, and everything crumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand see you soon (ish)!


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